Mortal Wounds
by treacle-antlers
Summary: She hadn’t a spare moment in the day to think about it. About him. About anything other than how good she had it now. How lucky she was. But lately, at night, she’d been having a lot of trouble sleeping.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

  
  
Just lately, she'd been having a lot of trouble sleeping.  
  
At first, she'd told herself that it was just her life. The strain of keeping fifteen hormonal, resentful teenage Slayers in line, whilst also attempting to keep a watchful eye on her hormonal, resentful teenage sister had to be getting to her. Rome was doing wonders for Dawn's confidence, not to mention her social life and, ever since the belly-button piercing incident, Buffy had realised that she was starting to feel less and less like her sister's legal guardian and more and more like the bystander to a shocking road accident. Most days she just stood slack-jawed, watching as her little sister's mind, body and libido simultaneously erupted all over the apartment.  
  
There was nothing she could do or say, no emergency service she could call and, as yet, she hadn't been able to find suitable justification for locking her in her room. Dawn was a grown up now, Dawn was a young woman; she tried the phrases again and again in her head when she was alone, trying to get used to them, but it still sounded ridiculous. Her gangly little sister, hair all mussed up and locked at the mouth to some guy who looked about the same age as Xander. Her baby sister in a black lace Wonderbra and heels you could stake a vamp with, reaching absently into her purse for a lipstick, eyes scanning the crowd as she talked. No. Dawn was a baby. Dawn had no idea. Dawn needed her constant protection and guidance. Dawn needed to listen to Buffy and wear a sweater when she was told to.  
  
It didn't help of course that Carlo was always on her sister's side.  
  
        "You 'ave to let her leeeve, Baffy."  
  
That was one of his favourites, usually accompanied by a gentle squeeze of her ass-cheek as he pulled her gently against him,  
  
        "Dawn is becoming a woman, to stand in her way is like...trying to stop a river from flowing. Is impossible."  
  
Briefly, she'd considered mentioning the Hoover Dam, but then those damned eyes of his had fixed on her and she'd allowed herself to melt yet again into his silky-smooth embrace. His sleek, well-muscled arms never held her too tightly, never too gently, always with what seemed like the perfect balance of intense passion and cool reserve. The delicious paradox never failed to intrigue her.  
  
        "You're right. I know...you're right."  
  
His lips quirked in a reproachful, slightly mischievous smile.  
  
        "Baffy, I am always right. I am 700 years old."  
  
        "Right. I keep forgetting. It's the skin tone. Sorry."  
  
Funny how the mention of his age always seemed to put pay to any kind of argument they ever had. Sometimes, lying awake at night, gazing at his perfectly symmetrical face, brow permanently creased in sleep with a deliciously pensive frown, she wondered what the hell it was he saw in her. 700 year old Adonis with the knowledge and wisdom of generations stored in his pretty, pretty head. Maybe it was her personality. Had to be right? Because, aside from a killer right hook and really, really good taste in shoes what else did they honestly have in common? Sure, she'd been through an apocalypse or two, but when it came down to it they were a pretty mismatched pair. She said tomato, he said pomodoro, she'd heard of Mozart, he'd met Mozart. She's seen pictures of some of the women he'd dated before - as well as paintings, tapestries, some etchings - and she couldn't help but notice that they were all of a certain type. Tall, dark, legendarily voluptuous, in other words; a type that wasn't her. It was pretty obvious. Eventually he'd get bored of her and dump her for someone new, someone with big golden breasts and a sword, or possibly part-dragon. Some olive-skinned, big-breasted Achilles with a mysterious past and a fascinating knowledge of rare Eastern European...  
  
         "Achilles was a soldier, my sweet. He led the Spartans against Troy. Against Paris, no?"  
  
        "He attacked France?!"  
  
        "No amoré, Paris was Hector's brother, and..."  
  
        "Wait a minute...are you reading my mind again?"  
  
        "Si, I just...."  
  
        "Well, stop it."  
  
Sometimes that side of things whigged her out a little, the whole Unlimited Dark Powers and Mysterious Prince of The Night bit. Not that she put the slightest bit of weight in all Giles' dumb warnings or in any of that crap in the file he mailed her as soon as he found out about the two of them. She skimmed through it of course, looked at some of the pictures, read some of 'ye olde reportes moste dire', but in the end she decided that it all came down to a gut feeling about a person. And with Carlo, ever since the first day she'd met him, her gut had been telling her yes. Oh yes.  
  
Truthfully, most of the time, these days it was just telling her 'guhhh', along with pretty much all of the rest of her body. Carlo had a technique that had been honed and perfected by centuries of sexual experimentation, and the stamina and imagination to match. Add to that his uncanny ability to probe his partner's mind, acting on their every fantasy as it was being realised, and you had one hell of a potent combo. The man really was the living embodiment of sex, on really well-muscled, tan legs and, right now, Buffy just couldn't seem to get enough of him. A fact which then had to provoke the question; why wasn't she with him?  
  
Sitting silently at her own window, she stared out at the million golden lights of Rome and tried to understand. It was nearly 2am and, traditionally, their time. The hour at which she would normally be spooned up against him, after a whole day and entire night spent in his company. But, for some inexplicable reason, and for almost a week now, her sleep beside him had become less than peaceful. 1am, a sudden cold shiver and she was awake. Eyes pinned open to nothing and head soundlessly whirring its pointless, meaningless night-messages, sleep entirely gone from her, never to return. Nothing but white noise and an impossible need to get up and go, release the sudden unbearable dynamic tension that was present in every muscle of her body.  
  
The more she thought about it, the more she decided that she understood the real cause. It was because she was happy. That had to be it. For so long, happiness had been something fragile, something to melt away through her fingers, and now here it was, solid and real. Home and family, love and a life, all the things she'd ever wanted and not a shadow of apocalyptical doom anywhere to be seen. She loved her new world, her apartment, everything about this vivid, majestic city and that happiness, that was something that was hard to get used to, hard to rely on. But she was learning, she was coming to rely on it, to accept that it was hers now, that it wasn't going anywhere soon. That she was safe now.  
  
That was why when she'd found out about Spike, it hadn't seemed like such a big deal.  
  
Almost two weeks ago now, a Friday night, and she'd been out with Carlo, some club where he always seemed to know everyone and everyone knew him. They'd been dancing for hours and she'd been drinking a lot; she felt safe enough now to let herself go a little, allow her guard to drop for a few hours. The room was whirling and so was she, caught up in the rhythm and full of the need to burn off the energy inside her. Carlo had been distracted for a moment, talking to some guy beside them in Versace with killer shoes, and suddenly she'd felt it. Felt all of her senses shift and attempt to focus. It was a strange feeling after so long, a million silverfish racing up her spine, but she'd known in a second what it meant. Who it meant. Who's presence it was she was feeling.  
  
It was a confused sensation though, melting and warping even as she tried to pinpoint its source, and as it receded she felt her legs buckle. As she fell, she felt familiar strong arms catch and sustain her.  
  
        "You maybe need to sit down? Baffy? You rest, yes?"  
  
For some reason he was pressing against her a little more forcefully than usual, his hold on her less than perfectly balanced, half supporting and half lifting her as she fought to regain her balance, refocus. There was a commotion going on behind them, sounds of fighting, but as she struggled to turn Carlo's face was in front of her, his eyes hugely luminous and beautiful, stroking her damp hair back from her face.  
  
        "I take you to my house now. I know what makes you feel better."  
  
        "Ok. Yes."  
  
His cool hand resting beneath her shoulder blade and the cool night air outside brought her mind back from wherever it had been. Such a lovely night. Dipping his head to her, Carlo pressed cool lips to her eyelids, ran a finger along her brow. Her spine felt liquid, like warm gold, but even as she melted into him, something jarred, a nagging feeling that there was something she had forgotten. Something important and, confused, she moved back, touched a hand to her head.  
  
        "Sorry, I...actually no. I have to...Dawn has dance class in the morning and I said I'd drive her."  
  
The look on his face drifted somewhere between surprise and concern for a moment, before becoming pleasantly blank again.  
  
        "Ok, you are tired. I take you home now."  
  
A move towards her and again she stepped back, unsure why. Carlo's eyes drew her, dark and gently searching and, unable to stop herself, she smiled, shook her head to his unspoken question.  
  
        "It's ok, I...I need to...walk a while. You know?"  
  
His lips quirked in a knowing smile and he dropped his head,  
  
        "I do. "  
  
Wordlessly his reached to touch her arm with a finger, and without thinking she grasped it, tenderly kissed the palm of his hand.  
  
        "I'm ...sorry."  
  
        "Please, don't be."  
  
With a dark sinuous movement, the car drew up beside them and without another word he opened the door and stepped down into the interior. In the darkness his skin glowed faintly golden, his pale fingers spread long and delicate on the leather seat beside him.  
  
        "Call me tomorrow."  
  
His gaze was ink-dark and bewitching, dark brows drawn together in amusement at her and then the door closed and he was gone, the car sliding away from the kerb like a sleek black fish.  
  
Watching it recede into the night, she frowned in sudden confusion. What the hell was she thinking of? Ditching her dream date on a Friday night? Before midnight even? For all she knew he was calling someone else right now. Some other girl, some gorgeous big-breasted Amazon, with amazing shoes, and a bizarre liking for crazy Italian operas about crying clowns that go on for hours an hours....  
  
        "Pagliacci my sweet."  
  
        "Whatever!!"  
  
It wasn't fair and now, as well as being confused and upset, she was mad as well. Although that part had only lasted as long as it had taken her to walk the twenty blocks to her apartment building. The part had ended as soon as she had opened the door and stepped inside.  
  
Because now she knew she hadn't been imagining things. Now she knew that she really was going crazy. Because Spike was everywhere. On the stairs leading up to her floor she felt it again, hairs prickling on her neck, muscles in her stomach jumping, and then in waves, thick and fast, around her door. She could sense his fear, nervousness, every thing about his mood as he'd stood in this exact spot, finger hovering over the doorbell. Inside, the emotions were different, multi-layered, mixed with confusion, sadness and, strongest of all, frustration. And over the top of it all, layers of Angel, equally confused, equally miserable.  
  
Standing, palms outstretched at her sides, she felt the nerves in her stomach clench, unclench as she struggled to understand what was going on.  
  
Spike was alive, and Angel knew it.  
  
She tried the first part again, turned it around and around.  
  
Spike was alive. Spike was alive. Spike was alive and here, in Rome. Spike was in Rome and still alive. Not dead. Well, still dead, but alive, and here. In Rome. Looking for her.  
  
And Angel knew it.  
  
This time, the second part got a rise. Angel knew it and who else? And hot on the heels of the question, came the answer.  
  
"Andrew."  
  
Like a deer caught in the headlight, hand frozen on the door handle, her ex- evil nemesis took one look at her face and instantly bolted for the bathroom. Cutting him off at the pass, Buffy caught one of his wrists, before roughly pulling him round to face her. Instantly, Andrew dropped to his knees, covering his face with his other hand.  
  
        "Hetoldmenottotellyoudon'thurtme!!"  
  
"Who did?"  
  
"He did!"  
  
Risking a glance at her, Andrew flinched when he saw her expression.  
  
        "I'm sorry, he just...he never asked me to do anything before and it was like he was trusting me for the first time and I said I wouldn't tell you and I couldn't even though I really really wanted to because...you know...just to see your face when you knew he was still alive, but then you got together with...you know...and then it seemed like maybe I shouldn't tell you because then I'd be like "Sleeping With The Enemy", although in that she was the one – Julia Roberts – who was dead and then Patrick Bergin found out and he was all like "Aahhh I'm going to kill you for real this time!!!" and she was so happy with Kevin Anderson even though he had really, really bad hair...."  
  
        "Andrew!!!"  
  
Staring at him in exasperated disbelief, Buffy released her grip on his wrist and let him slide to the ground. His face was a weird mixture of embarrassment and discomfort now, but she was pretty certain he was telling the truth, about Spike's request. About his not wanting her to know. Flicking her a weak, apologetic grin, Andrew raised his eyebrows,  
  
        "So surprise! Guess what!! Spike's alive."  
  
The smile wavered around the corners of his mouth and then disappeared. He rubbed his wrist.  
  
        "Owww. That...really hurt you know."  
  
So Spike was alive, and Andrew had been right. After the initial surprise and her anger had gone, she realised that. It didn't really mean anything had changed. She was still happy with Carlo and she had moved on with her life. She was happy now, and the fact that the man she had fallen in love with a year ago now turned out to be alive rather than a big pile of ashes, that didn't actually figure into the big Buffy picture at all any more, did it? She told herself that, and she hadn't done a thing. Hadn't tried to call him, hadn't written and, despite wondering what he had wanted, what had brought him the thousands and thousands of miles across the world to her city, her home, she hadn't done a single thing.  
  
And things with Carlo were as good as ever. He said he loved her, adored her, and sometimes she felt she might even love him back. Things with the Slayers were fine, great even. Work took up most of her day and her relationship took up nearly all of her nights. Dawn was always on her mind, always late home from school, always out on dates with guys who looked way too old for her and, all in all, she found that she didn't even have time to consider what might have happened, what could still happen, what her life would be like if Spike were a part of it again. What he looked like now. How his face looked. How his face had looked like when Andrew had told him who she was seeing now. She hadn't a spare moment in the day to think about it. About him. About anything other than how good she had it now. How lucky she was.  
  
But lately, at night, she'd been having a lot of trouble sleeping. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

  
  
        "Why don't you just call him already?"  
  
Entirely lost in her own thoughts, it was a moment or two before Buffy even realised anyone had spoken, and still another before she recognised that the voice hadn't just been her own.  
  
Lowering the paperback she'd been staring blankly at for the last half hour, she frowned irritably at her little sister. Most of the beach was empty, despite May being the official start of the tourist season here, and thanks to the peaceful atmosphere and soothing sounds of the waves her usually completely faithful thoughts had started to wander. Although of course it meant nothing. Less than nothing actually. Just a combination of the heat, and the sensation of the cool sea breeze caressing her naked hip bones like fingertips. Ok, so she was thinking about sex and ok, maybe not sex with her actual at-this-moment boyfriend, but since when did that mean anything at all? And since when did her sister get so damned perceptive anyway.  
  
        "Why don't I just call who?"  
  
Sprawled out flat on her back in the buttery summer sun, Dawn's wide mouth stretched into a grin without even having looked at her. Lazily she lifted her arms out to her side, turning them over to ensure an even tan, meticulously rearranged her bikini straps.  
  
        "Oh what, so that's not who you're thinking about?"  
  
Pointedly avoiding her sister's upside-down gaze, Buffy turned the page of her novel and addressed her attention back to the story. It wasn't a bad book, a little far-fetched maybe but certainly readable. The heroine wasn't exactly the most likeable of girls, truthfully she was a bit of a ho, but the dialogue was pretty snappy and the sex scenes had a ring of realism about them. Although the way she just seemed to turn to mush whenever the really hot guy just said 'hey' to her? That part was pure bullshit. Buffy had a fairly clear recollection of how it felt to turn to mush, and she couldn't remember a single word ever having taken her knees out. The sight of him standing quietly, waiting for her in the moonlight maybe, or the feeling of his thighs tensed against her or that first touch of his lips against the base of her throat...  
  
        "Buffy?? You're zoning out again."  
  
Casually propped up on one elbow now, Dawn had turned over onto her front. Her face, already tanned a warm golden brown, was deeply shaded by the floppy sunhat Buffy had insisted she bring and it was hard to read her expression.  
  
        "I said, are you just going to sit here all weekend mooning or are you going to go and call him?"  
  
        "What are you talking about?"  
  
Pulling the brim of her hat down over her eyes, Dawn snorted in disgust and let her head drop back onto her arms.  
  
        "OK, but just remember you were the one who said we needed a break. Just remember that ok?"  
  
        "Meaning?"  
  
Flipping over onto her back, her older sister reached for her sunglasses, slid them on.  
  
        "Meaning that now I'm wondering what or who it is we're supposed to be taking a break from?"  
  
Leaning over to tuck the tie of Buffy's bikini under itself, Dawn gave her gentle ticklish poke in the ribs before rolling back into place.  
  
        "You don't have to pretend just for me you know, "a sniff and another subtle shift of position, "I'm glad you want to spend time with me, together, you know? But if you'd wanted Carlo to come along too, you could have just said."  
  
In truth and under normal circumstances, she probably would have done. In her own experience there was no better way to bury unwanted emotions than with lots and lots of really energetic sex but, in this case, she couldn't risk the chance that, during the actual act, Carlo might pick up on something...inappropriate. He didn't do it deliberately now, she'd made her feelings pretty clear on that score, but at certain times the strength of his emotions could make his telepathic abilities uncontrollable and without meaning to he would just reach into her. It was actually pretty creepy, but she supposed the pros probably outweighed the cons in the long run. In their three months together they'd never really had a single fight and, as a boyfriend, she really couldn't fault him. He was kindness and consideration itself, all wrapped up in a delectable dark-eyed mysterious package and she was the luckiest girl alive, or so everyone kept telling her.  
  
Even over-protective Willow, pre-armed with all of Giles' prejudices and primed with every fact she'd gleaned from the Council's surviving literature, hadn't taken long to succumb to his charms. In a characteristically lavish gesture, Carlo had reserved an entire restaurant for just the three of them and, halfway through the hors d'oeuvres, Buffy had come back from the bathroom to find her new boyfriend and best friend deep in rapt conversation.  
  
        "So you're saying you actually...dropped the apple into his lap?"  
  
A small shrug and one of his disarming trademark smiles,  
  
        "Well, the timing was so right, how could I resist? And how else was he to make the connection without gravity first...revealing herself, yes?"  
  
So that, it seemed, was that. Everybody loved Carlo. He had something, a...gift, she hesitated to call it a power but it was certainly powerful. Faced with someone who had every reason to hate him, he could break down their defences with the swift ease and agility of a master swordsman and within an hour they'd be laughing away and telling him how many sugars they liked in their tea. It was a miraculous thing to see, his systematic conquest of every single person in the universe, although sometimes Buffy wondered if it must be a little dull to be liked and admired by everyone. Didn't you need a nemesis somewhere? Someone who darkly plotted and schemed against you at every turn, always thinking up new ways to thwart your plans? Just to add a little spice to life? Or maybe that was just her.  
  
        "No, it's not just you Buffy. I mean, I'd be a pretty boring world if everyone just really liked each other. I mean...yay no wars or anything but God, can you imagine the poetry? And the art? Not to mention the music. Everyone just eating sponge cake and saying how oh lovely the weather is? No one would even attempt to develop any kind of a personality and they'd all be boring as..."  
  
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Willow's cheeks had coloured slightly and she'd hastened to correct herself,  
  
        "That isn't to say it wouldn't be...nice. I mean, to be liked by everyone? I mean that'd be really...cool."  
  
Buffy rolled her eyes,  
  
        "Enough. You don't have to sell me on the badness. It's my thing, remember? It's just...I like that I like him, you know? And that everyone likes him. There's no conflict or guilt or feeling icky or...lurking. There is absolutely no lurking. I am 100% lurk-free."  
  
Eyeing her solemnly, Willow nodded,  
  
        "Then...good. You like him. I like him. You're both likeable."  
  
Unasked questions had shivered in the air above them, but it was late already and Willow had another early flight out again the next day. Reluctantly surrendering her hand at the airport, Buffy had barely had time to call out a last goodbye before her friend was swallowed up by the heaving masses of outgoing holidaymakers. So long Will, don't forget to write.  
  
But still, Willow had liked him. And Willow, she was her touchstone, Buffy's universal indicator of what was good and what was bad for her. And with Willow's approval, would come Giles' and then maybe even Xander's, although perhaps that was hoping for too much. One mention of Carlo's less- than-human status had been enough to colour any positive feelings he might have about her new life in Italy.  
  
        "What do they have there that we don't anyway? Pizza? We have pizza. We invented pizza."  
  
        "I like it here, Xander. It's beautiful."  
  
        "Buffy, Monster Island is beautiful but Godzilla doesn't want to stay there. He wants to get back to Tokyo where all his friends are."  
  
        "Oh what, so he crushes Tokyo because he likes it there?"  
  
        "He doesn't mean to crush Tokyo, he can't help it. His feet are big...and then he just gets excited."  
  
        "Can we forget Godzilla again for a moment and just get back to..."  
  
        "...when you're coming home?"  
  
She didn't honestly have the heart to tell him then, but in her deepest of deep guts she already knew that she would probably never return to the U.S. Too much sadness and way too many memories just waiting to become reality again. Too much water under burning bridges. This city was her home now and, if and when she tired of this one, there were a hundred thousand others dotted around the globe that were probably every bit as beautiful. That promised her just as much happiness.  
  
        "So why do you look miserable?"  
  
Once again, Dawn's voice pulled her from her thoughts and back to reality. Frowning, her sister stood facing her at the foot of her hotel bed with her hands on her hips.  
  
        "C'mon. This is supposed to be a holiday? We're here to enjoy ourselves remember? No work for you? No school for me? Now please, just go get changed and I'll buy you some panpepato."  
  
It was evening now, early evening, and the long day of sun and sand and complete lethargy had taken its toll on her. Turning her face into the pillow, Buffy rolled onto her side and closed her tired eyes. It was a nice hotel, not too expensive because she still wouldn't allow Carlo to pay for things like this, but nice enough. Big wide windows that faced the blue blue Mediterranean, and thick Egyptian cotton bed linen that felt cool and soothing against her sunburnt skin.  
  
        "You're going to sleep already?! It's only 6 o'clock."  
  
Cracking open an eye, Buffy could see her sister's sandaled feet, straight ahead of her now beside the bed. Trying hard not to laugh, she closed her eyes again. Even Dawn's toes looked annoyed.  
  
        "Gimme and hour or so. Maybe two. Then I'm all yours."  
  
And she meant it. Really. A siesta was all she wanted, and then her batteries would be fully recharged. Raring to go. Pushing her face further into her pillow, Buffy tried to ignore Dawn's irritated muttering as she hunted around the room for her purse, bracing herself for the inevitable bang of the door, but when it came she was surprised to hear nothing but the soft click of the latch. Maybe her baby sister had grown up a little after all and smiling, she pulled the clean linen sheet over herself and let herself just drift away.  
  
_And then...  
  
she was in a very dark place.  
  
It took her a moment or two to realise what it was at first, because she hadn't had one in almost a year now; the sensations far more powerful than a normal dream, like an all-singing all-dancing audio-visual hallucinations with smell-o-vision. Like a room but not, smaller and dark and oppressive heat and everywhere the smell of blood, of bleeding. At her sides, her limbs felt like nothing, weak and shining white in the darkness and crisscrossed with black and, although the idea of movement seemed a complete impossibility, laughable even, she could feel her body struggling for purchase on life. Hanging on with gritted filthy fingernails for all it was worth. Pain was everywhere, immense and overwhelming like a constant iron pressure, but still this body clung , tenacious as a skinny vine, waiting, waiting for an end.  
  
Inside this cell she could see only darkness, but even so she was aware that her vision was now far superior to that of her normal body. Even inch of the rusting, decayed walls was evident to her, every crack and flake etched with pin sharp accuracy on her iris and suddenly she knew with a disgusted sickening certainty that the scene before her eyes might very well be her last.  
  
Her body was giving up. Every last ounce of strength had ebbed away with the last of her blood, for she understood now that that was what the heavy sticky feeling under and around her torso was. Her own blood, thick and black and old, was congealed into every crevice beneath her, pasted like tar to her sides and legs, leaving only pale islands of white flesh unmarked and shining like bone. Although she could not move to see them, her legs felt badly damaged, the pain long and sharp like shattered glass, spiderwebbing through her.  
  
Then suddenly, a grating sound from above, the sound of rusted metal on rusted metal, and without warning light spilled into darkness. Reflexively she tried to move, to pull back from it, but already it was lessening as a figure, familiar in outline, appeared silhouetted. Moving forward, Carlo's face was impassive, no hint of sympathy in his eyes or tender smile on his lips. Confused, she tried to move, lift her arms to him, but found herself pinioned by pain, smashed down by it.  
  
Drawing to her side, her lover's hands moved along her body - sliding fingertips through blood and finally - reaching her face, he smiled.  
  
        "So here you are."  
  
His eyes, black jet and huge, stared down into hers and unable to turn her head, she stared back.  
  
        "I've been looking for you, you know? Everywhere. Looking for my sweet...heart. And now here I find you. And just in time it seems. Just in time."  
  
His voice was melodious, soft and sing-song, and with perfect calm now she felt her hold slipping, her grip on the world easing away. Sinking into black.  
  
        "I can't let you go, dear heart. I need you."  
  
His smooth, long-fingered hand on her rib cage felt cold and distant, like someone else's hand on someone else's body, but the black water was lapping at her feet now and she couldn't hold on any longer. Quiet waited for her somewhere down below, peace and quiet and....  
  
Stabbing, searing pain, yanking her up and out and forward like a puppet by its strings.  
  
Carlo's face spattered as he stood above her, his hand writhing with something wet and black and pumping, pumping, streaking his flesh with black.  
  
Her eyes started, strained outward as she fought with weak ivory hands to cover the gaping hole in her chest, fighting to keep the life inside. His lips brushing her own, murmuring endearments.  
  
        "My heart. My life. My own."  
  
And her own voice, a voice that wasn't hers though, choking on blood, gasping out a name,  
  
        "Buffy.....Buffy..."  
  
_        "Buffy?! Buffy?"  
  
Ripping back the sweat-soaked sheet that covered her, Buffy sprang from the bed just fast enough to make it to the bathroom, falling to her knees on the tiled floor. Cold saliva rushed to her mouth, and then the still crystal-clear image of Carlo did the rest and she retched. Deep, sickening convulsions that wracked her whole body, turning her inside out.  
  
Watching horrified to one side, Dawn stood frozen for a moment or two before moving forward to hold back her sister's hair. The worst over, Buffy had slowed to choking sobs, her face streaked with tears as she fought for breath. Reaching for a washcloth, Dawn soaked it in cold water before handing it to her.  
  
        "Thanks."  
  
Her sister's voice was muffled and weak and, watching her slowly clean herself up, Dawn shook her head in concern.  
  
        "God, Buffy, you must have really overdone the sun today. Maybe a beach holiday wasn't such a good idea after all."  
  
Taking back the washcloth, she soaked it again before helping her sister to her feet and back to the bed. Buffy's eyes followed her as she moved to the wardrobe, fetching out another pillow to put behind her back. Folding the cold cloth in half now, Dawn laid it gently across her brow, both their faces acknowledging as she did so, that it was Mom's thing. Mom's special way of babying them.  
  
Smiling, she sat down on the side of the bed, touched her hand.  
  
"You know...sunstroke is so last season."  
  
"I know, "a weak smile, "Sorry."  
  
"S'ok."  
  
Her eyes shifting to the floor, Dawn studied the carpet for a moment, tracing the pattern with her toes. When she spoke again, her voice was careful, quiet measured tones.  
  
        "Did you have a bad dream as well?"  
  
        "Mm hm."  
  
        "You were shouting out your name in your sleep you know, "her eyes held her, questioning, "So what...were you dreaming you were someone else?"  
  
Someone else. Not herself. Carlo's words had been for her, but the body, the ruined ivory body that had imprisoned her, that hadn't been hers. Familiar though, the smooth curve of wrist into hand, the line of the ribcage. All familiar. Closing her eyes she saw the darkness again, white arms, blood-spackled chest and knew. Realised that she had known. Whose body, whose pain, whose hopeless desperate grip on life.  
  
        "I think I was Spike." 


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

  
  
It was three, maybe four hours before she felt entirely warm again. The chill that had pervaded her muscles and bones refused to be driven from them and even lying full-length in a steaming tub, stereo on full blast, Buffy found she had only to close her eyes to be back there again. Blackness and old blood and slick white flesh, and overlaying it all the dread certainty of her own end. His end. Spike's.  
  
Of course Dawn had made her make the call, but when the line had finally connected there was only a single blank tone, sending the adrenaline that had been up and coursing through her veins slowly away. She had felt so ready to hear his voice, although she still had no idea of exactly what she was going to say. 'You may be in danger' sounded so phony, crazy melodramatics, and she could almost see him laughing at her as she said it, cigarette hanging on his lower lip, that one scarred eyebrow cocked to the ceiling;  
  
"Is that right, pet. And what kind of 'danger' would that be?"  
  
Cursing him silently she punched redial, listened to the tone again and then slammed down the receiver. What kind of an evil megalomaniacal law firm didn't have a damned answering service anyway?  
  
There was no way she was just going to let this one drop though, not now, and so out came the little black book. All the numbers she'd told herself that she'd never be needing again: The Hyperion, Angel's cell, Wesley's apartment, but at the end of every new alley she just ran smack into the same featureless grey wall. Number unavailable, non-existent, disconnected. Not even some voice telling her though, just nothing and more nothingness – the conclusion of each new call reinforcing her certainty that something, somewhere had gone very, very wrong. Finally, her entire emergency store gone, she lifted the handset one last time and checked her watch with a frown.  
  
Reading her thoughts, Dawn checked hers as well,  
  
"He's usually home by now. Excepting Watcher emergencies of course."  
  
This time when she finished dialing, it connected, the ring-tone distinctly English and solid-sounding. Four times, five, six and then, just as she was about to give up on him, Giles answered.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
The sound of his voice warmed her more thoroughly than any amount of brandy ever could and, almost without realising it, she hugged the phone to her, cradled it like a favourite bear.  
  
"Is everything all right?"  
  
"Um...difficult to say."  
  
Glancing briefly at Dawn, she held her breath for a moment before she spoke.  
  
"When was the last time you heard from anyone in L.A.?"  
  
It was short conversation, peppered with assurances on Giles' part. His comforting assertions that of course nothing could be wrong, that Wesley would certainly have called him, but that he would make sure now and then call her straight back as soon as he had news. Setting the receiver back in its cradle Buffy had dropped back wearily on her pillows with a smile. Giles had sounded perfectly calm, his voice quickly slipping into the weary, amused tone he used when she was being especially neurotic, and that had gone a long way towards reassuring her. Two hours later though, when he still hadn't called them back and his line was permanently busy, the cold stone of fear was back in her chest and no amount of hot baths and soothing words could drive it out.  
  
Sliding down into the bubbles, Buffy let the water slip up, over and into her ears, deafening her to all sounds but her own breathing. In the past her visions had always been deeply disturbing - prophetic warnings of death and destruction tended to affect the mood that way – but up until now their meanings had always been fairly clear. Stay away from those catacombs, beware of men with crosses for eyes, all pretty non-confusable stuff. But inexplicable dreams about a Spike/Buffy hybrid being eviscerated by her adoring new boyfriend? That was a whole new horror show entirely, and one that left her as confused about her feelings as it did with the icky imagery.  
  
It was all Spike's fault, that much was obvious. Ever since he'd made his impromptu visit from the grave and then left again without even waiting around to see her she'd felt like her whole life had been put on hold. Leaving him in the Hellmouth the way she had, what they'd said to each other, that had felt like an end. Like the very definition of closure in fact, the kind that no relationship comes back from. Spike had been ash, buried under thousands of tons of her hometown and that had felt like a pretty definitive signal that she should move on, and so she had. Slowly and painfully at first, with baby steps, making little plans and then slightly bigger ones, all the while trying to tell herself that what had happened was for the good. The Greater Good. That what had grown between them over the previous six months had been nothing more than a deeper trust, a unique friendship, and that everything she had dared to imagine about a future for them together she had to let go.  
  
So they'd moved to Rome and, by late November, things had pretty much settled into a routine for them. Every day Dawn would go to school and Buffy would go to work. New Slayers were arriving in Rome all the time, parceled up and sent to them express delivery by what was left of the Watcher's council stationed around the world. Willow and Kennedy had already found three girls in South America and were working on a fourth and Faith and Robin were making their way through mainland China following up leads as they went. To date they had been far too successful at persuading them to join the cause. Buffy had discovered training them, along with the six she'd already found in Europe, was a full time job: five days a week, 8am till 5pm, with a whole thirty minutes for lunch. In a way, it was a lot like being back in Sunnydale. No real time to call her own, blisters on her feet and barely time to grab a sandwich before she had to be back at the office. The only real difference being that her 'office' was now a Rococco style townhouse near the Villa Borghese.  
  
The few members of the Council who remained in Rome flitted in and out of the place like flies around fruit, never stopping for long enough to become familiar and never pausing to make anything more than polite conversation with the original Slayer. They delivered a girl, filed the paperwork and were gone. At first she'd thought it was just a form of respect, that they simply trusted her to make the decisions now, but after a few weeks of it she had come to the conclusion that they were all a little afraid of her. The returned-from-the-dead Slayer who'd broken all the rules, shattered their sacred lineage and lived to tell the tale. The realisation bothered her for only a moment or two before she had dismissed them all with a shrug. Fear was good. Maybe now they'd leave her alone as well.  
  
In the end, Giles was the one who'd changed everything. Spending the Christmas holidays at his home in Bath, Buffy had quickly noticed that his attention was fixed on her even more firmly than usual. Every time she laughed or smiled at something Dawn said, she felt his eyes on her, a small frown creasing the corners even as he joined in with the joke. It was annoying. So much so that, by the fourth day it became impossible for her to ignore. Walking alone with him in the snow-covered gardens surrounding the house, she regaled him with stories of her new life, anecdotes about the new Slayers, descriptions of their new apartment, only to see the expression return again and again. His mouth smiled and laughed with her, but his eyes were like clouds, grey blue and full of concern.  
  
"Why is it you won't you believe I'm happy?"  
  
Stepping in front of him, she faced him down, her arms folded across her chest. Surprised, Giles opened his mouth to answer and then closed it again. Buffy took a step closer.  
  
"All you've done all week is frown at me. Every time I open my mouth I look up and you're wearing that 'poor Buffy' face, like there's something wrong with me. And I just wanted you to know...that...there isn't."  
  
Scuffing a foot in the deep snow, she stared down at her toes. Suede was so damned impractical anywhere wet, and now the snow was ruining her $200 boots. Swiping at her eyes she reached down to knock the stuff off, and didn't even register that Giles had spoken until she straightened up.  
  
"Did you just say something?"  
  
Nodding slightly, he reached up to his neck, tightening his scarf a little against the wind.  
  
"I said I'm sorry about Spike. "His eyes looked straight into her, tender and gentle with understanding, "I didn't say it at the time and...afterwards it seemed too late."  
  
Taking a hand from his pocket he reached for her shoulder, and then without warning drew her ramrod-straight body softly against his. Suddenly muffled close against the scratchy wool of his coat, Buffy's throat constricted with pain and she fought to control herself. Giles' heartbeat was slow and steady and the sound of it against her ear forced hot tears from the corners of her eyes.  
  
"He was a good man. In the end. I was wrong, and you were right about him."  
  
A hand rubbed gentle circles between her shoulder blades and, with a low moan, Buffy felt herself uncoil. Leaning hard against him she buried her face deeply in his shoulder and let herself cry. Deep painful rasping sobs that she felt through her ribcage. Clenching fistfuls of his coat she held herself upright, as he told her how much Spike had meant to her. How incredibly courageous his final act had been, but how she had to forgive herself for it. How just because someone had gone from your life it didn't mean that you had to stop caring for them.  
  
He had talked on for a long time, long past the point that both their feet had frozen and the sky had started to darken with more snow clouds, but when they finally disentangled and went into the house Buffy realized that, for the first time in months, the heavy feeling in her chest had lifted. That the fire warmed her a little when she held out her hands to it.  
  
All that had taken her almost a year, ten months before she was able to look at a guy again without feeling like she was betraying someone. Even then, her first date with one of the counselors at Dawn's new school had been farcical. Downing a double whiskey before the hors d'oeuvres was never a good way to begin a romantic evening and, somewhere between the bouillabaisse and the disastrous expresso incident, her Italian prince had disappeared to the bathroom never to return. It wasn't something her sister had let her forget in a hurry, parent/teacher evenings had been a minefield ever since, but at least it had stopped Dawn from pestering her to start dating again.  
  
It wasn't long after then that Giles had asked her to look into The Immortal's movements. Things were hotting up with the Slayers' training and, driving them at a faster pace now, Buffy began to feel some of her old strength returning. Rome was crawling with all kinds of demon-life just waiting for a Slayer smack-down and, aided by her trusty band of newly trained warriors, she knew just the girl to deliver it. Giles said this Immortal guy was bad news? A ringleader? Well then they'd just take him out, collapse the whole evil pyramid-scheme from the top down. Buffy's shiny new resolve had lasted exactly the time it took for Carlo to pour her a perfect vodka martini over ice and ask for her phone number.  
  
Of course everyone had been really mad at her at first. Giles had called her a word she didn't even recognise and even Xander had managed to come up with a few new invectives she'd never heard him use before but, for maybe the first time ever, it didn't seem to bother her. None of it mattered. Carlo made her feel good about herself, made her feel alive in a way she hadn't in years and anyway, after a few weeks of seeing him everyone seemed to just quiet right down. Even Dawn, who had initially warned her off him, giggled and danced around him now like he was some kind of pop star. Carlo was everything a girl could want and after a week or two of dancing, she let herself give into it. Let new and unfamiliar arms slide around her body and draw her in. Once Carlo's lips had traced their first patterns along her naked spine, the speed at which she had forgotten about Spike frightened even her.  
  
Sliding up from beneath the water, Buffy soaped up her belly, slowly scooping away the suds to reveal the same islands of bare skin she seen in her dream. If Spike really was in danger there was no question that she should help him. They were friends still weren't they? Dead or undead, they still had to look out for each other and if she could repay even a little of the debt she still owed him , then she was happy to do anything she could. Closing her eyes, she saw the room again: black rust and flaking old blood and shuddered. Swallowed the cold nausea that rose in her throat whenever she thought of him there. Tried not to see Carlo's face again as he appeared at her feet, eyes black as dead suns and red mouth stretched in a welcoming smile. Long pale fingers sliding along her ribcage  
  
"Buffy!"  
  
Dawn's voice jerked her upright, water sluicing over the sides, and in a moment she was up and out of the tub, wrapped in a robe. Her sister was hunched up on the bed, her face white and fearful. When she didn't speak Buffy took the receiver from her, held it to her ear. The voice at the other end was low and tense and for a minute she didn't recognize it as Giles'. Then the familiar words; "I don't want either of you to worry..." pulled her back to reality and she realized he was telling her that they were dead. All dead.  
  
"...massively outnumbered by all accounts, although no one seems to be able to tell me how it actually happened."  
  
Wesley and Angel and Fred and....  
  
"...ostensibly, purely for vengeance."  
  
And that tall black guy, Charles, she'd barely met him for more than five seconds.  
  
"...battle was quite protracted by all accounts. But I have it from a highly reliable source..."  
  
Unable to stop herself she was sinking to the floor, the telephone slipping from her ear to the bed. Outside she could hear the sea, although they were miles from it now. The slow heavy crash of waves on the shore synchronized perfectly with her breathing. It was the sound of her heart too as she closed her eyes, saw it pulsing and wet in Carlo's hand as Spike's life quietly slipped away from her body. Slipped away from her grasp forever.  
  
"....apparently there were no survivors." 


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

  
  
The apartment needed vacuuming.  
  
Although she'd only done it the day before, the rugs were already starting to look dirty again. Dust from the street and sand they'd brought back with them from the beach, hidden away inside their shoes. She'd cleaned them as well of course, but for some reason the stuff just got everywhere, still turning up now a week after they'd got back, sifted down between the couch cushions. It drove her crazy.  
  
Later, she thought she might wax the table legs. You were supposed to do that sometimes to keep them nice and stop them from getting too scratched. Her Mom had told her that once and she'd laughed at her, but her Mom had been right about a lot of things so maybe she was right about that too. Having your own things was good, but it was a responsibility. Furniture, rugs, curtains, they all cost money and keeping a home together, looking as it should, was hard work. In some ways it was a lot like slaying. If you stayed on top of it, did a little every day, it could all be maintained. Let it go for a week or two, go on vacation, and suddenly it all went out of balance and you had to struggle to make up ground.  
  
Soaking a cloth in hot soapy water, Buffy bent down to the kitchen counter again and worked vigorously at a pot burn. The damn thing just wouldn't shift and after another minute or two more she gave up in disgust, threw the wet rag down over it. Dawn never used the damn pot-stands. How many more times was she going to have to tell her this stuff? Mom had spent years cleaning up after her and now it looked like she was destined to do the same. Pick up your socks Dawn. Do some laundry Dawn. Don't rest your shoes on the coffee table. Drawing in a deep breath, Buffy picked up a casserole dish and frowned at the congealed mess of pasta and home-made tomato sauce inside. Her sister was looking around for colleges now. Maybe she should start helping her with those applications.  
  
She was elbow deep in hot water when the door-buzzer went and, wiping the suds off on her jeans, she pressed the intercom button in with the heel of her hand, leant into the speaker.  
  
"Ye...I mean...si?"  
  
There was a slight pause and then Carlo's voice answered.  
  
"Baffy?"  
  
Shit.  
  
Grabbing a cloth to clean the grease and soap from her arms, Buffy leant into the buzzer again, hesitating a moment before she pressed in the button.  
  
"Ah...come right up."  
  
Oh God. Her hair was a total mess. The last few days she hadn't really left the apartment and, running her hand through it now, she realised that it was actually way beyond messy, almost into the realms of bed-hair. Not that Carlo would really care of course, he even thought her hangnails were adorable but passing the little mirror in the hallway she stopped to pull the ends back into a barrette, rubbed furiously at a smudge of black on her cheek.  
  
They hadn't really spoken much since she and Dawn had got back. Not that that was anything unusual, although normally if he didn't call for a few days there would be flowers waiting for her in the morning or a gorgeous handwritten note to assure her of his undying love. The fact that he had been out of touch for almost a week didn't surprise her though. Carlo's connections in the demon-underworld of L.A. were many and varied and Buffy was fairly certain that, by now, he probably knew as much about what had happened to her friends as she did. He knew of Wolfram and Hart, had even had some business dealings with them, and from what he'd hinted in the past he had even met Angel a few times in person. And he knew a little about Spike of course, their history. It would be just like him to allow her a few days much-needed breathing space before he tried to offer his heartfelt sympathies.  
  
Rubbing a thumb under her eyes she tried to wipe away the smudges of old makeup before realising that the shadows there weren't mascara. She should have dabbed on some concealer or something, maybe Dawn had some in her room, but before she could go find out a quiet knock sounded on the apartment door and her time was up . Standing on her doorstep Carlo always looked oddly out of place. He was so tall that he had to stoop a little as he entered and his wide, muscular body seemed to almost fill the frame. Bending to take her face in his hands, his eyes searched hers briefly before he moved in for a kiss, his lips barely brushing hers while his palm gently cupped her jaw. It all felt a little clumsy somehow and, trying to cover the fact, Buffy gave a small awkward laugh.  
  
"Now you're going to tell me I look beautiful right?"  
  
He smiled,  
  
"You do. Although you are tired, "his other hand slid to her hip, resting on the curve, "And a little sad. Your sadness makes you tired."  
  
He had on new shoes. Soft cream suede pumps with golden stitching. They looked like they cost a small fortune. She frowned, actually no - they looked like they cost several large fortunes and maybe a small lottery win. They were probably made out of unicorn-skin or something.  
  
"Baffy, you are not looking at me."  
  
Taking one of her hands he tried to tip her head back again, but this time she shook him free and stepped away. One of Dawn's old sweat socks was lying over the arm of the couch and, grabbing it up, she stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans, folded her arms.  
  
"So....how...are you?"  
  
Talking to him had suddenly become so much harder and she couldn't understand why. It was almost a week now since she'd had the dream and its horror had long faded to be replaced by a deep grey ache. Whatever its meaning it was too late to do anything about it now. Thinking back, she wondered if it had just been a kind of psychic metaphor, her subconscious knowing, on some level, that Spike had finally died. That, painful though it was, she should let him go now and give up her heart completely to Carlo. It made a weird kind of sense symbolically but, for some reason, the interpretation didn't quite work. Since when had true love been all about horror and pain and death? Other than for her that was.  
  
"Have you eaten?"  
  
It wasn't the question she'd been expecting and for a moment she was caught off guard.  
  
"Uh...no...I mean, I had some cereal earlier but...no lunch. Yet."  
  
Although she'd been dreading the words from his lips; 'I'm so sorry to hear about...', not hearing them at all, in any form, was just confusing. It seemed unbelievable that Carlo could know nothing of what had happened but, as the seconds ticked by, she realised that that had to be it. He'd just been away on business or something, not avoiding her at all and, shifting her feet a little, she stared down at the floor. Some sand was rubbed deep into the pile of the rug. She'd missed that.  
  
"Baffy, is there something wrong?"  
  
Something. Yes, something was wrong, but it wasn't a something she could put into an explanation over lunch. Not something she could explain to him easily without breaking down again and she'd really cried enough. Enough for this week anyway. She thought she and Dawn had cried themselves dry that first night, but there had still been some left for Willow when she'd called on the Tuesday evening. Still some more every night after it got dark, every time she thought about never seeing either of them again. About all the things she'd needed to say to Spike, and hadn't. God, even though she'd been given a second chance to, she hadn't. The prospect of having to explain that to yet another person, filled her with a bleak misery.  
  
"I can't...."  
  
Her voice sounded odd, thin and tight like her throat was closing up. Shaking her head she cleared it,  
  
"I just...I haven't been feeling too good this week. I had a...cold and maybe I just need to stay inside till I know it's...gone."  
  
Carlo's hand, which had been resting unnoticed on her forearm, dropped to his side. He didn't move to touch her again but, even avoiding his gaze, she felt as if it were looking straight into her, seeing everything she chose to hide from him. For the first time ever, the thought made her truly uneasy.  
  
"You are very strange today."  
  
The Immortal's tone was light, even slightly amused, but lifting her face to look at him Buffy was struck again by the darkness of his eyes. They shifted in tone depending what kind of mood he was in and right now, despite his expression, she could see he was a little angry.  
  
"I go to your work and they say you are at home. I think maybe you are bored and would like to have lunch. Maybe you would like to see me, but now I see that you would rather clean windows. I do not understand what you want. "  
  
His hands wanted to reach for her again she could tell, his hurt pride maybe wanting her to make the first move and, seeing it, she felt an overwhelming urge to move into him. Be held; comforted and cradled by his strong arms as she had in the past. The need was immense but the sight of his hands, hanging by his sides, had frozen her. The long pale fingers with their perfect half-moon nails hypnotised her and, tilting back her head to look at him she smiled gently, before taking a small step backwards.  
  
"I'm sorry. I guess I'm just not feeling myself at the moment. Maybe we could do this another time."  
  
After he'd gone, she sat on the couch for a while and just stared at the TV. There was one channel that showed American news and stuff and, even though she wasn't really interested in any of the programs, she still preferred to hear familiar voices speaking in the background while she was ignoring it. Staring blankly at the screen as it dissolved into an advertisement for Right Guard, she found herself wondering again how Carlo could not have known. Didn't Wolfram and Hart have offices in Rome? She was sure she'd heard Willow mention it before. And what about all his business connections in LA., certainly some of them must have been directly affected by what had happened. According to Giles, Angel and the others had taken out the entire demonic Governing Board of the company before they'd been ambushed. The whole firm and all its clients had to be in chaos, so why hadn't Carlo heard anything? Just where had he been for the last seven days? Tibet?  
  
She was still pondering the question when she heard the sound of Dawn's key in the lock and, checking her watch, she was surprised to see it was four already. God, she really had to stop doing this. Zoning out when there was so much to do. She'd had almost two weeks off from training already and, unless she snapped herself out of it pretty soon, she was going to right back where she'd started a year ago. Staring into the middle distance and wondering when the earliest time of day was you could respectably order pizza.  
  
"Hey."  
  
Dropping the mail into her lap, Dawn threw herself down on the couch. Her eyes drifted around the room, taking in the immaculate furniture and sparkling windows.  
  
"Guess this means you haven't been out again today huh?"  
  
"I waxed the table legs."  
  
"Mmm hmm, "lifting a hand to smooth down Buffy's hair, her sister smiled at her lopsidedly, "and this was before or after you got dragged through the hedge backwards?"  
  
Supper was just plain - ham sandwiches and some brie and grapes – but, listening to Dawn talk about her day, Buffy felt her sadness and frustration over Carlo's visit melting away. School was sucky, one of the girls in her class had a real problem with her and was it Dawn's fault if she had to have special language tutoring while everyone else had double maths? Report cards were due that week and she was determined to pull her grades up, and did she think that some extra money from the Council might be possible for something essential like Chemistry books or maybe tap shoes? Finishing off the cheese, Buffy sorted through the letters automatically, turned them over one by one and slitting them open with her finger. A check from their Dad. God, should she cash it or frame it?  
  
"Anyway, I just didn't get it so after class I stayed behind to ask him why..."  
  
Gas and electric bills, no surprises there. A card and letter from Willow, just to say she was thinking of her. They were hiking up to some village in the Andes the next week and she was really suffering in the heat, but determined not to show it.  
  
"...And he said it was because I got the 'valency' of Sulphur wrong. Can you believe it?"  
  
And the last was plain, an unfamiliar local stamp: Civita Vecchia. Tearing it open she took out an invoice, frowned at it in confusion.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
Dawn's chin hooked over her shoulder, munching a grape, and they stared at it together. It was simple enough, a carbon-copied docket addressed to Miss B. Summers, a long reference number and US port of departure. Confused, her sister reached for the envelope, read the address on the back.  
  
"Is it a haulage firm? 'Prothero Shipping'? Did we get sent something from Xander?"  
  
Buffy shook her head, turning it over.  
  
"I don't think so. I think this is one of those container-shipping firms, the ones people have all their furniture and house stuff sent over in," she shrugged, "When people have furniture to send that hasn't been swallowed by a Hellmouth."  
  
"Hmm."  
  
Wrinkling her nose, Dawn lifted it out of her hands and read the back.  
  
"It says we need to take this down to the port of entry and sign for it."  
  
"Sign for what?"  
  
"Your personal effects. See? 'Personal Effects of Miss B. Summers.' It says right here. Civita Vecchia? Is that far?"  
  
Groaning in exasperation Buffy snatched the paper back and reached for the phone. Dialled the number at the top of the form and listened to it ring a couple of times before she realised, crap, they probably didn't speak any English.  
  
"Trasporti Prothero, come posso aiutarla?"  
  
"Uh... Buona sera. Il mio nome è Buffy Summers..."  
  
Her mouth completely dry she was still struggling to think of the next words when Dawn reached over and gently plucked the receiver from her hand.  
  
"Ciao. Avete della merce in consegna per me. Il mio nome è Sommers ed il mio numero di riferimento è 345-567-9834."  
  
She was infuriating sometimes, the way she managed the things Buffy found hard so very easily, but at times like this Dawn was invaluable. Watching her smile and chatter away in Italian with such confidence, she tried to understand what was being said but couldn't get more than a few words of it.  
  
"What's she saying?" "She says she's just pulling it up now."  
  
"Does she know who sent it?"  
  
"I don't....ssssh. No. Sto ascoltando."  
  
The woman at the other end had typed in the reference number and was now reeling off something that sounded like complete gibberish, but her sister was just saying 'Si...si', asking about times and directions and writing them down on the back of her Chemistry book. Grabbing the pen from her, Buffy scrawled a sentence underneath and punched her in the thigh.  
  
"Si, si, dobbiamo esibire un documento? Si."  
  
Sticking her tongue out at her, Dawn flicked her hair back over her shoulder,  
  
"Oh... posso chiedere, chi è il mittente?" and then wrinkled her nose as she got the answer, "No, non li conosco, ma ringrazio molto."  
  
The back of her book was covered in writing now, but scanning down it Buffy still couldn't see the answer. Putting down the phone, Dawn shrugged.  
  
"It's no one we know."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well unless we have an old Irish uncle I've never heard of, "her sister laughed, "It's probably just some Council stuff. Some old geezer died and left us his diaries or something. What was that Watcher who came to visit us that time called? The one who looked about 300?"  
  
"Why an Irish uncle?"  
  
Buffy picked up the docket again. Turned it over. Shipped from California. Two weeks ago. 'Personal Effects of Miss. B. Summers'.  
  
"'Cause...get this...Mr Liam Patrick Kilkenny. Sounds like a leprechaun."  
  
And just like that it slid into place.  
  
Click.  
  
Slide.  
  
Click.  
  
Dark square room and the walls etched with blackened rust and dirt. Choking heat and an airless windowless prison. Spike's body, slashed to ribbons, his strength seeping away for the last fourteen days. The stench of decaying blood and behind it, thin and colourless, the unmistakable smell of the sea. The personal effects of Miss B. Summers. Shipped and sent to her by Angel himself. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

  
  
It didn't make any kind of sense. None whatsoever. But if there was one thing Buffy's overly long career as a Slayer had taught her, it was to always trust her instincts. Slamming the little car up into third gear, she put her foot down hard on the accelerator and swore as it slowly began to pick up speed. Now if only she'd got around to remembering that sooner, instead of trying to convince herself that her dream about Spike had just been a twisted metaphor. Didn't her Slayer dreams always mean something? Hadn't they always served her well? So just exactly when was it she'd started believing what someone told her over what she felt in her gut?  
  
The sound of the car's engine reached fever pitch and, wrestling it into forth, she drove the gear stick home with a resounding crunch. Outside the windows the streets were almost deserted, glorious columns and architraves etched in sodium streetlight, but for once she was completely oblivious to their beauty. Slammed the car down a gear again and almost span the tail out as she hung a hard right, heading north-west and out of the city. Goddamn European piece of crap, had she ever even tried pushing it over thirty before?  
  
Giles had said no survivors. A reliable source. Gone and no trace to be found of either of them. Not a trace, not even ashes to mark where they'd fallen. He'd told her and she'd believed him, even though every part of her had wanted to deny it. Had wanted to cross a whole ocean just to stand there and see with her own eyes the place where they'd died; a dirty, rain- slick alley in the backstreets of old Hollywood.  
  
        _"From what I understand, he didn't expect any of them to survive."_  
  
The fight had taken place two whole weeks ago, her dream; seven days afterwards and yet she hadn't even questioned it. Hadn't wondered why, if she were simply being informed of Spike's death, notification was a whole week late in arriving. Cursing softly, she gripped the steering wheel. What the hell was wrong with her lately? Relaxing and learning to enjoy life was one thing, but losing her instinct for danger was quite another. The Slayer must always be on her guard, remember dumbass? Alert to all her senses. Reacting instantly and without question. Not sitting around feeling sorry for herself whilst one of her best friends slowly bled to death locked inside a goddamned storage container. Glancing down to check the map spread out on the passenger seat beside her, she grimaced as she saw how far she still had to go, jammed her foot down into the car's floor. Maybe Xander had been right. Maybe city living was dulling her wits.  
  
It seemed like hours passed before the signs started to offer her any hope. Sixty kilometers became 58, 55, 50 and for a while it seemed like she was barely moving at all, like the highway was deliberately trying to fuck with her head. Ten, twenty minutes with nothing more than a glimpse of the sea to let her know she was still heading in the right direction. Then at last she saw lights, far distant and way off to the west, but unmistakably port lights - orange and yellow against the midnight blue of the sky - and the sight alone sent her foot down to the floor again. Her whole body hunching forward over the steering column. A sign blurred passed at speed and, barely glancing at it, she held her breath, let the car's desperate vibration carry up through her body and into her bones. Let him be alright. Please God, just let him be alright.  
  
The why of it all, that part she hadn't even begun to answer yet. Spike might still be alive – that was all she needed to know for now. The how and the wherefore didn't factor, although okay, maybe that was because she didn't want it to. That Angel could be partly responsible for what was happening, that he'd somehow also survived but not thought to let her know, that was something she was locking down tight for now, keeping wrapped cold and hard at the back of her mind. But it was bothering her. A lot. Partly because, right now, she couldn't think of anything on earth that might have persuaded him to do such a thing. But mostly, mostly because of something Giles had once read her from a old Watcher diary. Packaging up and shipping her dying ex-lover to her, like he was so much imported meat, felt disturbingly like something Angelus might come up with.  
  
These, and other more disturbing thoughts, were still drifting through her head when she finally brought the car to a halt outside the shipping yard. Killing the lights, Buffy reached under the seat and drew out the flashlight she kept there and then, after a moment's thought, grabbed a blanket from the back seat. Underneath was a simple first aid kit and she weighed it lightly in her hand before dropping it back down. She had to be realistic. If Spike's injuries were as severe as she imagined, bandages and blankets wouldn't be what he was needed. Her eyes went to the back seat again and, with a grunt, she flipped back the cushion to reveal a small stash of weapons. Selected a short, razor-sharp hunting knife and tucked it into her waistband. The face that stared back at her from the rear-view mirror was a deathly shade of white and looking into her own eyes she swallowed. Promised herself something silently;  
  
_I swear to God, if I can save you this time - I'm not letting you go again until you believe me._  
  
Outside the street was empty and, breaking into a short run, Buffy easily scaled the fence surrounding the yard and dropped down on the other side. The wire wasn't alarmed, although a sign in Italian accompanied by a picture of some fearsome looking dogs gave her pause for thought, and palming her flashlight she padded softly forward, her senses keyed to every sound.  
  
It was only after twenty minutes of walking that she began to understand how large the place was. Row upon row of massive steel containers were stacked four, sometimes five high, hundreds to a line. Most of them were numbered, but there were many that weren't or were so rusted up that the number was indiscernible, and staring at them in the semi-darkness she felt despair rising up like cold water inside her. Somewhere in this maze Spike was slowly dying, and the thought that that might still happen when she was within shouting distance of him was almost unbearable.  
  
Climbing up onto the top of the nearest stack, she took a long look around. Ten rows branched off to her left, another twenty to her right. Turning around, she counted another twenty rows behind her. Even if she walked all night she wouldn't have time to check every one of them and, by the faint pink light in the eastern sky, she didn't have that long. Not if she was going to find him by sunrise.  
  
Her throat constricted, one hand tightening on the hilt of the knife in her waistband. God, why hadn't she listened to Dawn when she'd begged her to take her along? Why did she always have to try and do these things alone. She wasn't the Chosen One anymore, she was part of a team: The Slayers plural, and that was supposed to mean something. That she had help when she needed it, someone she could always call when she needed a hand.  
  
        _"He said anytime we needed a hand, I should just call him."_  
  
Andrew. She should have called Andrew. He cared about Spike at least, knew him well enough to be taken into his confidence. She should have trusted him enough to bring him along. Trusted him, like Spike had.  
  
        _"He gave me his number. I'm not supposed to give it to anyone else, but if you want it..."_  
  
Spike had trusted him not to tell her he was alive, to keep his secrets.  
  
Spike was working with Angel.  
  
Spike had his own apartment in L.A..  
  
Spike was still in love with her.  
  
        _"Are you sure? You could just...maybe send him a text message or something?"_  
  
_Spike had a mobile phone._  
  
Unzipping her pocket, Buffy took out her own phone and stared down at the display. The number she had, the number she'd tried first that night, had an L.A. prefix and was only two digits different from the one she had for Angel. An office number.  
  
        "I'm not supposed to give it to anyone else, but if you want it..."  
  
Andrew's name was number six on her speed dial and, although she knew he was definitely home that night, it took an age for him to answer.  
  
        "Hel....I mean, si?"  
  
        "Did Spike ever give you a mobile number?"  
  
Her words came out so fast that she wasn't sure for a minute that he'd understood what she'd said. At the other end of the line she could hear the sheets rustling back as he sat up in bed, rubbed the sleep from his eyes.  
  
        "Hey Buffy. Woah, que pasa so...darned early? What's the big?"  
  
        "Spike. Last month when you told me to call him, you said you had another number for him? That he'd given you for emergencies. Were you making it up?"  
  
A long pause and more rustling on the other end. The sound of an alarm clock being lifted and checked.  
  
        "Spike? I...no. I wasn't making it up I..." his voice cracked, yawning, "God, what time is it?"  
  
        _"Andrew you goddamn idiot, answer me!!!_ Did Spike ever give you any other number besides the one you gave me?"  
  
The sound was faint. So faint that, if she hadn't been straining for it, she wouldn't have heard a thing. At the very edge of her hearing. Like a cricket - faint high-pitched whirring like an insect's wings - and, turning, she pinpointed its source, started to run.  
  
_Please God let the battery hold out. Please._  
  
Two rows down and she had to stop and hit redial when his voicemail kicked in. Waited with her gut tied up in knots for the ringing to start again, and then she was scrambling up on top of another row, twisting her head frantically from side to side. The sound was being reflected, distorted by all the hollow metal, and for a moment she panicked when it seemed to be coming from three directions at once. Forced herself to close her eyes, her heart to slow down, her breathing to regulate. Tuned every single other thing out except the high, regular, metallic sound and the soft thunder of the blood in her veins.  
  
_There._  
  
Dropping down to the ground, Buffy landed heavily on all fours and jerked her chin up just in time to hear the sound abruptly stop. This time though, she was certain and, laying a hand on the metal crate in front of her, she drew in a slow deliberate breath. The box was around forty feet long and made of thick, heavily painted steel, but she could still smell it. The scent of decaying blood was thick and pervasive despite the crate's airtight seams and as she dropped to her knees to examine the heavy lock her stomach convulsed. Thanked God that she hadn't brought Dawn after all. There were some things even the sister of the Slayer shouldn't ever have to experience.  
  
Even though the bolts were rusty it took all her strength to pull them loose, the iron rending with an ear-splitting groan that must have been heard for miles, but she past caring by now. Wrenched the door open so hard she almost took it off its hinges.  
  
        "Spike? Can you hear me?"  
  
The interior was pitch black and, stepping inside, her sneakered feet stuck to the surface like a freshly tarred road. The dim morning light from outside wasn't enough to see more than a few feet, but when she closed the door and turned on the flashlight she immediately wished she hadn't. The stark beam illuminated the semi-dried blood caked in a two foot wide trail across the floor, turning it jet black, and Buffy recoiled as she realised that there were human hand prints in it. As if someone had been dragged or had dragged themselves from the container's entrance to the rear.  
  
The beam of her flashlight bounced off stacks of wooden boxes. Thirty or forty empty packing crates reached almost to the ceiling, forming a makeshift wall towards the back and moving towards them she saw a faint glow in the darkness like a tiny beacon. The phone, the one she'd been calling, was lying half wedged between the broken slats of one. The blue signal light blinking silently.  
  
        ::You Have 3 Missed Calls::  
  
        "Spike? Are you in here?"  
  
There was dirt and blood everywhere, dust. What if the dust were him? What if she had been too late.  
  
        "_Spike?!!!_"  
  
And then there was white. Something white. Hurling the boxes to one side Buffy shone the light into the darkness where it illuminated spiralling black flakes of rust. Thick blood-encrusted floor and black rags and in amongst them, half in and out of a splintered crate - a limb. Glowing in the darkness like a piece of broken statue.  
  
It took her a second to move. Spike's arm was so still and white that for a moment she thought it might have been severed, that it was all that was left, but then she was tearing at the box surrounding him, kneeling down to find his legs and chest and face with her hands. His t-shirt felt like it was welded to his body, thick dried patches of blood forming scabs where the material had been slashed, and shining the flashlight sideways over his body she gave a low moan. Jesus, he was a mess. Far worse than with Glory. The wounds on his chest were so deep she could see the glint of his ribs through them and the right side of his face was completely shattered, the skin along his cheekbone blackened and split.  
  
        "Can you hear me?"  
  
Pressing one of his eyelids back gently, Buffy laid a hand underneath his skull and cradled it. His pupil was enormous, fixed and black like a doll's, and the sight of it made her tremble inside. His eyes were like her Mom's had been the day she'd found her on the sofa. Empty. Like something had just gone from inside.  
  
        "Spike, it's me. Buffy. You have to wake up."  
  
Her voice sounded so unlike her own, tiny and frightened. Trailing out to the side, his arm lolled uselessly, trails of dried blood making criss- cross patterns on the white skin and, reaching for it, she took his hand, threaded her fingers through his. His skin was translucent; every inch of him livid with thin bright blue veins as if he were fading layer by layer into himself and, fascinated, Buffy traced the lines with her fingertips. Was this what happened when a vampire was starved of blood? Did he just slowly disappear? Was there a point when the flesh became so weak that the demon could no longer feed and became trapped; a mind imprisoned inside a useless corpse. The thought was horrifying and, pulling Spike's head around to rest on her knees, she reached for the knife in her belt and unsheathed it. Ran the razor-sharp edge along the flesh of her left hand.  
  
His mouth wouldn't open. Crouching over his head she grasped his jaw and tried to pull it down but it felt like iron, the flesh stiff and leather- hard. Blood was leaking from her and making a fist she held it against his lips, cursed in frustration when it ran uselessly over his lips and down the side of his face.  
  
        "Drink it!!"  
  
She'd thought the demon would wake even if the man wouldn't. That the smell of her blood would force it to the surface, work his muscles, but there was nothing. His stone-pale arms lay uselessly by his sides and, dragging on his shoulders, Buffy pulled him back into a half-sitting position against her, tried again. Pushed his lips open with her hand and pressed the wound into him.  
  
        "Drink it. Please. Drink it."  
  
His body felt like ice against hers, the bones of his skeleton digging into her like dry branches, and she shifted desperately, laying her cheek against his skull. Dully, she realised that her other hand had found his again, her fingers reflexively clasping and unclasping as if she were trying to knead life into them, warm them like a cold child's. He was so still and nightmare memories sprang to life in her again, the rigid plastic feel of her skin as she'd tried to wake her, limp and empty inside. Her face as blank and lifeless as the sky. No. No. Not like this. Not again. Not him as well. Her throat closed and she choked, pressing her lips into damp hair.  
  
        "Just...please...."  
  
Something moved against her wrist and her eyes sprang open, staring. The side of his face nearest her was clear - the skin unmarked – and, as she watched, his eyelashes shivered. Trembled open as if he was half asleep.  
  
        "...don't...bu..."  
  
It was barely a sound in his throat but she heard it, dragged him up further against her and clenched her fist harder, sent the blood jumping out and over his tongue. A second more and she saw his lips move, cracked and dry, and then his throat, swallowing. She gasped for breath and realised only then that she had been holding it.  
  
        "Drink it Spike. It'll make you stronger."  
  
Her voice sounded far more certain than she felt, and she saw his eye open a fraction. Trying to focus on her face.  
  
        "Bu..."  
  
        "Don't try to talk. Just..."  
  
Something about the eye was wrong. There was no relief there, just emptiness. His lips against the palm of her hand were weak still but they were closing, his teeth coming together in a bite with no strength. Minutely, his head moved, turning to the right.  
  
        "Don't....bu..."  
  
Blood from her hand was trickling down her wrist and, as she watched, it ran down to her elbow, dropped with a tiny soft sound onto the floor. Little round circles. Spots of black. His chin moved, hitching up like he was trying to raise his head, look her in the face, but he was too weak. Opened one eye instead, fixed her with a single black pupil. His mouth twitched and red leaked from the corner, spilled out and down his jaw.  
  
        "Don't..._bother...._"  
  
And then light blinded her.  
  
A sound like thunder roared overhead and, throwing herself forward without thinking, she scrambled for the knife. Everything was bright, white and painful, but it was the smell of burning flesh that finally made her realise, made her jump to cover Spike's body with her own. Above their heads the roof was open, wide and yawning to the dawn sky, and silhouetted in the opening was a figure. Completely familiar to her and entirely terrible. Because of what she'd seen. Because she knew who he was, because she knew what came next. Stepping down into a square illuminated by a shaft of fatal sunlight.  
  
        "So here you are..."  
  
Smiling at her Carlo reached with his hand, pale fingers extended, eyes dancing deep black hollows in his perfect face.  
  
        "I've been looking for you everywhere." 


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Between the length of three heartbeats, the whole world can change.

Spike had told her that once, and something about the tone of his voice and the hard blue glint in his eye, had made it seem less of a platitude. One dark night when she'd thought it might be fun prying him open a little, staring at the mess of his insides instead of her own for a change, she'd asked him to tell her a story. His story. The one about how he came to be what he was and this time _she wanted the real one_, not the one he put on for the cheap seats.

He hadn't given it up easily. Knew damn well that that would be something sharp and handy for her to use on him, slit him wide open when he least expected it but, with the right kind of hook - baited with just the right worm - she'd felt him bite hard. He wanted to tell her, part of him _needed _to, and as the truth spilt out of him, wet scarlet on black London cobbles, she'd felt an answering need. A need to know exactly how it felt to die that way.

Between the length of three heartbeats, his whole world changed. Light had shifted into dark, like a figure stepping quietly into shadow. His human heart; filled with weak love and dull verses about songbirds and lace, slowed and then ceased, and in that second he became something else. Something other than human. Something terrible.

That the passage was painful was only fitting because, within those first two agonised heartbeats, his soul was taken from him. He'd felt it go, he'd told her, slipping away to be carried like a fine handkerchief on the wind. And it hadn't felt bad exactly, just funny, kind of like he was emptied out inside, a hollow thing opened up to the wind, making a sound like a bottle or a kiddy's whistle. His blood ceased it's pumping, his brain ceased it's quiet workings and, in the space of his last heartbeat - the silence was truly deafening.

"And then what?"

"And then I died."

"_You remember dying_?"

"'Course," he'd squinted at her, half serious, half mocking, "Don't you?"

The candlelight had made a jack-o-lantern of his face, his cheekbones casting angled shadows upwards. She remembered his eyes though, still and clear, holding her gaze as he'd pulled her hair back from her face, touched his lips slowly to her throat.

"Three heartbeats, Slayer. That's all it would take. Your world can change forever."

And now, frozen in sunlight, crouching over Spike's body, Buffy felt herself silently counting them.

"I am sorry. I should have called you."

Carlo's voice was soft and perfectly moderated, but at the sound of it her hand tightened so painfully on her knife, she heard her knuckles crack. Keeping her eyes riveted on his face, she drew herself upright.

"What are you doing here?"

The Immortal's dark hair shaded his expression from her and he moved sideways out of the light.

"Not quite the welcome I was expecting."

"Really?" Her voice sounded strained even to her own ears, but she struggled to control it, to hide the fact that she was silently shaking from head to toe. "Just exactly what was it you _were_ expecting? And while we're at it – why not tell me how the hell you managed to find me."

The tone of the words surprised even her, but she left them where they stood. Reaching down she took hold of Spike's wrists and, without changing her expression, she pulled him quickly backwards into shadow, ripped off her jacket and covered him with it. Tendrils of smoke were already starting to curl from the exposed skin of his chest and seeing them, she felt a surge of anger overcome her fear.

This was not her dream. In that, she had been a powerless corpse, helpless to defend herself against his attack, but here and now...

"Buffy..."

Frowning, Carlo stepped towards her and, with a smooth sidestep, she blocked him, the knife held low and purposeful at her hip. Staring into his face, she thought she saw the slightest shift of surprise.

"OK, you need to back the hell away from me right now."

The Immortal's head tilted slightly to one side, a small frown creasing his perfect brow. Dropping his hands to his sides, he stepped back a pace.

"Buffy, why are you this way with me? You hold a knife as if you could harm me. You talk as if I am your enemy. What can I do?"

Something about the timbre of his voice was affecting her and, shaking her head furiously, she shifted the blade to her other hand, narrowed her eyes. If he was trying to get into her mind he was going to have a hell of a fight on his hands.

Dropping to a ready crouch again, she felt around on the floor for her phone, checked to see the signal was strong and then hit the speed dial button. Flashing up on the screen, her home number connected and started to ring. Carlo's frown had dissolved into the mildest of puzzled smiles, but the sight of him silhouetted against the daylight was still enough to keep every muscle in her body tensed like a spring.

The phone clicked into their voice-mail and Buffy cursed softly at her sister's ability to sleep through anything.

"Dawn, it's me...you need to get some blood, as much as you can. Ring Andrew, he'll know someone. And we'll need bandages..."

Stepping into her space, Carlo reached for her hand so quickly that she barely had time to bring the knife up under his chin, before he'd knocked it roughly from her. Balling her fists, Buffy pulled back, her eyes flashing.

"You have exactly ten seconds to tell me what you're doing here. _Do you hear me?"_

The shake was barely audible, but she knew he heard it. Shutting him out of her head only hid so much.

"Why are you afraid of me?"

Sliding off her, his eyes dropped to scan Spike's body curiously and, for the first time he seemed to realise that her stance, although outwardly combative, was also protective.

"What is this creature to you?"

"_Answer my question_."

The air between them crackled and then, at the corner of her vision, Buffy saw a movement. Square-shouldered and solid, Antonio - Carlo's personal assistant and driver – had silently stepped into view above them. Outlined against the blue morning sky, he addressed his employer quietly in Italian and, nodding a reply, The Immortal turned back to her. Spreading his hands wide, he shrugged.

"Buffy. I do not understand your question. I am here because I was told to come. Dawn telephoned me and I..."

_"Dawn."_

The mention of her sister's name grounded her, the last of the trembling in her belly dropping away to be replaced by a strange distant calm. Dawn had called Carlo. Probably out of anger at being left behind. Maybe just out of concern. Dawn had called Carlo because she hadn't known. How could she, when Buffy had been very careful not to share the most disturbing detail of her dream with her baby sister.

"She told me that your vampire friend was hurt, that he would need blood and medical care." Shaking his head slightly, he reached behind him to lift something from the floor. "I have a vehicle waiting outside the gates, with blood, some medical supplies. The sun has risen already, but he will be safe inside this."

For a moment she stared in confusion at the object he held out to her. Reaching almost to the floor, the heavy length of black vinyl seemed to exude a faint familiar odour, but it wasn't until Carlo reached down to unzip it that she fully understood what it was.

"You want me to put him in a body bag?"

"It will protect him from the sun."

"No! I...no!!"

Speechless, Buffy's eyes widened in horror. Nothing that had happened so far today made any sense. Instinct was telling her that nothing was as it seemed, that there was still danger here – for both her and Spike – and that, right now, she needed to get him as far from this place as was humanly possible. But logic. Logic was telling her that time was definitely not on their side.

Reaching for the vampire's hand, she slid her fingers through his, pressing their palms together. He was unconscious again, his head falling loosely to one side, but the idea that he might come to zipped inside that...thing was just too horrible to contemplate. Pausing for a second, she stared at his face before folding his scarred arms carefully up underneath her jacket. When she turned to look at her boyfriend again, his expression was unreadable.

"I'll carry him"

"At least let me..."

_"I said I'll carry him." _

Trying to control the emotion in her voice, she reached around on the floor for her dropped knife. Carlo's feet, encased in pristine cream leather, shifted as he bent down to pick it up. The hilt was sticky and, averting her eyes as she took it from him, she wiped it clean on her sleeve before returning it to her waistband.

"You gave him your blood?"

His control was precise, but she still sensed something running underneath the surface. Jealousy. Maybe curiosity. Or something else. Something darker.

"He was dying."

"He is a vampire Buffy. He is already dead."

"You know what I mean."

Sliding her arms carefully under Spike's neck and knees she braced herself for the noise she knew would undo her; the sound of shattered bone grating again bone, but still wasn't prepared for what she felt when she straightened up with him. His body weighed no more than a child's.

_It'll be alright. Hang on just a little longer okay. I know you didn't mean what you said before._

"You did not answer _my_ question."

Already halfway to the door, Buffy stopped and held her breath. Carlo's shadow reached long and sinuous across the container's floor towards her and, turning her head sideways, she looked back at him.

"Which one?"

"What is he to you? This vampire."

"He's a friend."

With a low groan, Spike's head rolled back loosely against her shoulder, and she hesitated a moment before adding,

"Someone...I loved."

A long silence stretched between them and, within the high walls of it, Buffy felt her stomach clench. Outlined by the rising sun behind him, The Immortal's silhouette was a black hole into which all light seemed to have fallen. Then a hand reaching out from his side sent cold fish darting into her stomach, ice shooting down her spine.

_"I can't let you go, dear heart. I need you."_

Reaching calmly into his pocket for his mobile phone, Carlo slid it into glowing life. His voice, soft and perfectly distinct, was the calm, detached counterpoint to her crazy, racing heart.

"Vittorio. Be ready. We're on out way."

It was a mercifully short journey.

Hunkered down over Spike's body in the back of the private ambulance, she barely raised her eyes more than once from his face, aware of the curious gaze she could feel resting on them both. After helping her inside, Carlo had taken a seat next to the silent driver and then calmly turned around to observe.

Not that they made a particularly pretty tableau. Essentially force-feeding the vampire from the blood packs he had provided, the expression on Buffy's face was less one of tenderness than ruthless determination as Spike, sliding in and out of consciousness, thrashed weakly about on the gurney beneath her hands. The tube she'd fed down his throat had made speech impossible and, when he tried a couple of times, half choking on blood and saliva, she had to forcibly restrain him from pulling the damn thing out. His eyes, fiery gold with huge dark pupils, opened wide into her own before sliding closed again. The intensity of pain in them was terrible and, breathing hard, she'd laid a palm gently against his cheek, before reaching behind her for another fresh blood-pack. Finding one in Carlo's outstretched hand, she hesitated a moment before taking it.

"He has...a strong will."

It was the first time he'd spoken since they'd left the storage container and pursing her lips, Buffy remained silent whilst she fumbled awkwardly with the seal of the blood-bag. Reaching to help her, Carlo's hand paused for a second to touch the back of hers before deftly attaching the new pack to the tube. His eyes searched for her, but she turned away, busied herself with a bandage.

"Is it much further?"

"No. Five, perhaps ten minutes."

"He needs more blood than we have here."

"There is more where we are going."

"Where _is it _we're going - exactly?"

"A safe place. Where your friend can recover in peace."

Reaching for her hand again, he paused a moment before enclosing her fingers in his.

"Baffy, there is no need to be afraid. Your friend has been through much, but he will survive."

The emotions she'd experienced back in the container were still echoing inside her, and Carlo's continuing proximity was doing nothing to help. The memory of his smiling face looking down on them haunted her and his explanation for his sudden appearance, that he'd simply tracked her from her abandoned car, seemed just a little too convenient to be the whole truth. The Immortal had many talents, many super-human abilities she didn't know about, but his skill at providing smooth rational explanations was one she was already very familiar with. He was a businessman after all - apparently a very successful one - and on several occasions she'd been witness to one of his famously satisfying explanations.

What The Immortal chose not to reveal, no one would ever suspect him of, and that was the part that now began to unnerve her. She'd always believed that being the object of Carlo's affections protected her from his dark side, that his affection for her meant that he hid nothing, but what if, in fact, the opposite were true? That proximity had merely blinded her to the glaringly obvious fact that he was exactly what Giles had first asserted him to be.

Beside her on the gurney, she watched the vampire's throat convulse, drawing the life-giving liquid down into his body almost against his own will. It was human blood, she could tell from the colour, the rich oxide smell of it, but for some reason the part of her that should have cared about that was silent. Spike was still alive, she had found him in time and he was alive and, for the time being, that was all that really mattered to her. Who or what her boyfriend really was, those were questions that, for now, would just have to wait to be answered.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

At first glance, their destination looked like any other private hospital; clean, sleek lines, crisp-looking nurses and, underneath, the low persistent hum of efficiency. Standing in the doorway, Spike's body cradled awkwardly in her arms, Buffy tried to define what it was about the place that set her teeth on edge. The smell had transported her instantly back to Sunnydale General, just as all hospitals did now that she had left her home, but there was something else too. Something that had sent her senses into overdrive, her skin buzzing and humming like she'd walked headfirst, straight into a nest. Behind her, Carlo's hand resting on her shoulder exerted a persistent pressure she assumed was intended as reassuring, but only served to remind her of exactly where she was. On completely unknown territory and with serious doubts as to his motives.

Walking swiftly through a pair of slapping double-doors, a demon approached them both with claws extended.

"Is this the vampire?"

Yellow-skinned hands reached for Spike's head and instinctively Buffy took a step backwards.

"Yeah, he's the vampire, what the hell are you?"

"Baffy, this is Dr Vittorio Ama'th," Carlo's voice at her elbow was soft, but with an edge of annoyance. "Vittorio is my personal physician and a very great friend. Vittorio, this is Buffy Summers. The Vampire Slayer."

Doctor? The spotty yellow thing was _a doctor?_ Of what exactly, Buffy didn't like to ask, but if the white coat and the air of brusque disapproval was anything to go by, he was fully qualified. Meeting her eyes, the demon blinked, pale membranes sliding sideway across slitted pupils.

"Charmed I'm sure."

Behind his back, two orderlies with matching horns swiftly wheeled across a gurney and, reaching for Spike again, Vittorio inclined his head.

"Miss Summers, if you will release him to our care now, we have a bath already waiting, "although he was looking at her, she noticed that he directed the comment at Carlo, "We find total immersion is the most effective treatment in cases such as this."

"Of course."

It took a moment for her to grasp exactly what he meant, and when she did she suspected that the shock showed all too plainly on her face. Total immersion in human blood. It made sense of course, Spike's wounds were so severe that ingestion alone probably wouldn't be much help in the shirt term, even so she couldn't help but shudder at the concept. Interrupting her thoughts, Carlo stepped in front of her.

"My sweet, let them take him now. You have done all you can."

Bowing her head, Buffy looked down at Spike's head cradled against her throat and then laid him gently down. Scarlet blood was pooled behind his bottom teeth and as she watched, his lips came together wordlessly to force it out. Stark red ran down his chin and slipped off to soak into the fabric of his t-shirt.

Surrendering Spike to the care of these things somehow made her feel disloyal. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. In the past, pain and passion had been so closely linked for them both that dressing each other's wounds, applying ice packs, had come to mean something else entirely. It was the only time she'd ever let him touch her tenderly and the silent truce that was drawn between them in those private hours together after battle, was something she knew they had both come to treasure. Remembering that now, her heart ached. She wanted so badly to tear the stained fabric from his body and heal him herself, just like she always had; with soft words and gentle touches, exchanging small secretive glances when he cried out from the pain. Although she had never trusted him with her heart, his ability to comfort her and offer her solace had been something she'd come to rely on completely.

"I want to stay with him."

Carlo's hand on her arm stiffened slightly, before falling to his side.

"As you wish."

The slight crease of his brow made her hesitate for a moment. His reactions ever since he'd found her with Spike hardly constituted threatening but, if her gut feeling was anything to go by, he wasn't being altogether straight with her now either. Maybe she should try to keep him sweet though, offer him some excuse for her behaviour, tell him how mixed up she'd been feeling ever since Giles had told her the news. But before she could begin to vocalise her thoughts, the gurney started to move away and she had to run a step or two to catch up with it.

Looking back over one shoulder as they moved toward exit, she was surprised to see that Carlo was not watching her. Deep in conversation with his yellow doctor friend, his expression was devoid of emotion but, as she watched, he took the other's wrist in a grip that made him wince in pain. Although she couldn't see Vittorio's face, fear was evident in every angle of his body; his head twisted sharply sideways as if avoiding The Immortal's gaze. Then the doors closed behind her and they were both gone from sight.

  
It was mid-afternoon by the time they finished with him. She'd stayed nearby during most of it, holding his hand while he thrashed weakly against the tubes they'd fed into him, speaking softly in his ear, but when they'd bathed him, she couldn't watch. The smell of so much fresh blood tin one place turned her stomach and the idea of seeing Spike lying half-submerged in it was the stuff of her nightmares.

When he'd emerged though, he'd regained consciousness for a short time and, hearing his shouts, she'd pushed her way past two more of the horned orderlies to see him struggling desperately. His eyes were wild, burning azure flame against wet bright-red skin, as he'd stared at something unseen and the sight she knew would probably stay with her to her grave.

Stepping towards her, his hand clawed the air uselessly in front of him.

"Blue! Where the fuck are you...I can't...Where's Angel, did you see him go down?!"

His shoulders heaved, straining with all his might against the arms that held him, but she hesitated, half-wanting to hear what he said next, and half not.

"Tell him we have to retreat. There's no fucking way we can...win this thing...no way...," his strength died and his legs gave way, "Tell him...I can't...tell him to make sure she's..."

She'd moved forward then and caught him as he'd fallen, naked and blood-wet into her embrace and as his breath had left him she'd heard him say her name. The way he spoke it made it sound more like a catechism.

Now, curled silently into a chair beside his bed, feet drawn up beneath her, she watched him sleep. Rinsed clean of the blood, his hair fell damply over his forehead and, without thinking, she reached over and smoothed it back. Watching him sleep had always been a guilty pleasure of hers. His physical beauty wasn't something she'd really noticed at first and, when she finally had, it wasn't an attraction she'd felt able to admit to. Waxing lyrical about a person's eyes, the smooth, clean lines of their muscled torso, that was something people in actual relationships did. People who trusted other people not to throw it back in their faces at a later date. Besides which, Spike was vain enough already and admitting that she sometimes studied him while he wasn't looking - tried to memorise the way light turned the angular planes and curves of his body into sculpture – that would probably have tipped him right over the edge.

Smiling slightly at the thought, she lifted a hand and traced the line of his collarbone. Things were different later though, when he'd come back. They'd been more honest with each other, laid everything bare. The thing that had grown between them had been wholly different; a new start for a new soul. But, by the time they'd got around to telling each other how they felt, time had out.

"Hey."

Her fingertip hesitated, hovering near his skin, until a hand came slowly over hers and covered it. Looking down into his face, her throat constricted.

"Hey yourself," she said quietly.

His eyes looked tired, the blue not quite at full strength yet and, after a second or two, he closed them again, frowning slightly.

"The doctor said it'll still hurt for a while."

Her voice sounded flat and unreal somehow, like she was reading from a script, but his eyes came open again to regard her calmly. Talking to him after so long, after thinking she never would again, felt strange. Like trying to remember words of a language she'd long since forgotten. Forcing herself to relax her posture, she laced her fingers together in her lap.

"He says that your legs will take the longest to heal. They were...the bones were pretty near shattered. He said that you were pretty healthy to start with though, so that would...probably...you know help. With the healing I mean."

"Uh huh."

He shifted a little, as if trying to gauge the extent of the damage himself and then nodded as if in agreement to something. Outside in the corridor, the sudden sound of the doors slapping open made her jump and she saw his gaze dart briefly to her before settling back on the shape of his body under the covers.

"He say how long it would take?"

His voice was perfectly calm, as if he was asking a stranger the time of day, and it took a moment for her to answer.

"He said...a week...maybe two. I don't think he's had too much experience of this kind of thing though. He said he'd never known a vamp survive after losing so much blood," she smiled weakly, "I got the feeling he'd like to write a paper on you."

The vampire's eyes stayed fixed unblinking on his feet and, for what seemed like an age, she stared at them too. The silence between them was palpable and, slowly, she reached out and touched his arm.

"Hey...you said some stuff before...about what happened in L.A. It sounded pretty intense."

His eyes slid sideways to stare at her hand.

"Yeah well, was out of my box pretty much. Say all kinds of crap when you're half dead. All sorts of stuff you don't mean." Reaching to the side-table for the jug of water there, he let her hand drop away carelessly onto the covers. "Can't say I remember much. Besides, one scrap's pretty much the same as another when you get down to it, right?"

Confused, Buffy felt a flush of warmth reaching up her throat to her cheeks. Moving her hand back to her lap, she looked down at the back of it.

"So that's all the Doc had to say was it? That I'm stuck in this place till the legs are fixed?" He sounded vaguely annoyed now and, filling a tumbler full of ice-water, he gulped it down and then filled it again, "Can't say I'm too thrilled about the prospect. Spent enough time hanging around hospitals to last me two bloody lifetimes. And I've never been one for jigsaws."

Clearing her throat, Buffy raised her head to look at him again.

"I thought...if you wanted to, you could come stay with Dawn and me. You don't know anyone in Italy and...I mean we could take care of you, at least until you're strong enough to..."

Something drifted across his face; a cloud, and then was gone. Meeting her eyes, his mouth twitched into a sardonic smile,

"S'ok. Don't really relish the idea of being spoon-fed by a woman again. Seem to remember it didn't work out too well the last time."

_Drusilla_? He was comparing her to _Drusilla_? A picture of the female vampire's cold smirking face flashed before Buffy's eyes and she felt a bubble of painful anger rise in her chest. Pushing it down, she tried to control her voice.

"You think I'd offer to help you _out of pity_?"

"Why else?"

Spike's left eyebrow lifted a fraction and red heat flooded her cheeks. Why was he acting this way? Like they meant nothing to each other? Like she hadn't once been the whole world to him?

"Spike, why would you even ask that? Because I _care _about you. Because I actually _give a damn_ whether you live or die."

The eyes looking into hers narrowed with a flash of gold.

"Dead already, remember? 'Fraid you were about a hundred years late on that score," his grip on the blankets tightened and he looked over at the door. His jaw twitched, "And you know - up until four years ago I was managing pretty well without your help or anyone else. Got myself in some pretty bad scrapes too, but somehow always managed to get myself out. That's what made the difference between me and a thousand other vamps. I don't give up. I_ never_ give up. You of all people should know that."

The air between them crackled with intensity and, returning his gaze, Buffy was suddenly filled with a terrible sense of foreboding; as if something had opened up in front of her - wide and yawning - and she was unable to stop herself from moving towards it. Shaking his head, Spike looked away first, down at his outstretched legs beneath the sheets and then slowly back to her.

When he spoke again, his voice was as calm and smooth as an empty lake.

"It's over Buffy. Whatever there was between us, it's gone. I think it's been gone for a long time. I think...maybe I just couldn't admit it to myself. Or maybe I didn't really want to believe it, but I know it now. Knew it the minute I opened my eyes and saw you sitting there with that look on your face."

She was falling. She could feel it. Sitting perfectly still, listening to him talk, she could feel the world falling out from under her and there was nothing she could do to stop it Nothing she could do but put her hands out in front and hope like hell that the drop wouldn't end her.

Some things in this world, they were just constant. The sun rose in the morning, the tide came in at night and Spike loved her. A man who she come to trust and care for above any other, felt the same way about her and – whether he was alive or dead – that had been the knowledge that had sustained her through the very worst of the last year. The idea that that could ever change, that he could even say the words seemed ridiculous. Like something they might have done as a cruel joke, in mean-spirited moment right before they'd fallen back into each other's arms. That he could ever actually mean them though, that had never even occurred to her before that moment.

Seemingly oblivious, Spike went on speaking, a soft almost consolatory tone now that somehow only made the feeling grow, the hopelessness more real.

"I'm going to be fine, you said so yourself and there's no reason to feel like you owe me anything. You don't. What I did for you - it wasn't really for you. It was for me. My way of making up for things I suppose, for paying the world back a little of what I took from it. 'Spose there's always been a little of the martyr in me after all. Maybe I didn't want to admit that either.

And this thing with you and The Immortal - I'll admit it hurt at first. Felt like someone was fucking skewering my heart if truth be told, but when A...when I'd had time to think about things, I realised something. I realised that, if this bloke can make you happy, if he can put a smile on your face and give you all the things you want, if he can give you the life you've always deserved, " he inclined his head, frowned, "Well then he's a better man than me, isn't he? He has to be."

The bottom came then, dark and hard and flat, and it drove the breath right out of her. Left her staring wide-eyed and disbelieving at his face, just like she had a whole year before. Only this time she was the one dying. She was the one turning to ash and crumbling away.

"I'm grateful for this though. I know what I said before - about not bothering, back in the box I mean - but I'm thankful you did, "

He smiled a little and this time when he reached out and took her hand, she didn't even try to disguise the trembling. Squeezing it, Spike dipped his head, trying to get her to look at him, but somehow she couldn't seem to lift her head.

"Buffy, all I've ever wanted is for you to be happy. That you've found someone who can give you that - well - that means the world to me. Makes me thankful that I did what I did. Makes it all worthwhile."

A finger touched her chin to bring her head up and, when she didn't speak, Spike sighed softly then raised himself up on one elbow.

"Looks like visiting hours are over."

Turning, she saw who he was looking at. Outside in the corridor, Carlo stood - quietly regal. A pale suit jacket was draped over one arm and in his right hand, he held a dark mass of roses.

"Besides - don't you have somewhere you have to be?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Spike didn't love her any more.

She tried the phrase out again and again in her head, turning it over and over like a Rubik cube, trying to find something there that made any sense. That would help her understand what move she was supposed to make next. Spike was over her. He had moved on and what was more, he wanted her to move on too. He was _happy _that she had someone else, had practically pushed her into another man's waiting arms and, when she'd turned to say a final goodbye, he had turned over and gone back to sleep.

Leaving the hospital, she felt oddly dazed. Carlo had offered to drive her home of course and she'd refused, thinking about spinning him a line, telling him that she was exhausted and needed to sleep, but in the end had just decided to go with the truth. Anything else would have required energy.

"I'm sorry. I'm just…it's hard to talk about ok. I think I just need to be on my own for a while. Work through some stuff ok?"

His embrace seemed to be trying to offer her comfort although, with a detached kind of curiosity, she wondered why he would even try.

"Si. It is…still painful. For both of you, yes? Posso capire, Baffy, I understand."

"You do?" Stepping back from him, she folded her arms across her chest and looked at the ground. The grass verge beneath her feet was a rich deep emerald green. "I thought you might be jealous or something." She lifted her head, "You seemed upset before. In the waiting room I mean."

"Of course. Who would not be? But when you have lived as long as I have, you understand that when love exists between two people, it is something powerful. Something that should be respected and revered. To come between two people who love this way is…impossible"

His voice was warm and dark like chocolate, and when he reached for her hand again she didn't bother to resist. Nodding his head, he sighed softly.

"I will not lie to you Baffy. When I saw how you looked at this vampire, how you spoke his name, I felt…a very great envy. But I see now that you understand your feelings for him belong to another life. That this love is in the past now, yes?"

His words dropped into her like cold pennies and, standing with her head bared to the late evening sun, Buffy felt each one add to the weight inside her.

"The heart it is…very precious. It is not something to be taken by force, but something to be given freely, with all the soul and the spirit. I do not want to take your heart Baffy. I cannot. I want only to receive it. So for your loss, I am sad for you, yes, but I am also glad. Because maybe now, your heart can finally be mine. Will you trust me with it?"

Far off in the distance a church bell was ringing and, absently, she looked for its source. Rome was at its most beautiful at sunset, particularly in the summer; a pale rose-colour sky promising the warm, balmy evenings that had first made her fall in love with this city. She thought back to the first few months after they'd moved, when she'd spent every night walking its silver-blue streets, searching for something to bring her back to life. How many she'd spent dining alone, overlooking beautiful piazzas, listening to people, couples laughing and living all around her and wanting it for herself. Spike had been in her heart then, and he still was. Maybe he always would be. When she'd imagined a figure across from her, laughing sideways in the candlelight, holding her hand under the table, it had always been him. And when she watched the moon rise above the great dome of the Pantheon for the first time, it was him she'd shared it with, describing it in her head as if she were writing him a postcard. He had given her this city, this whole life, but had never been there to share it with her and, with a painful dawning certainty, she realised that now he never would be. In a way, it had been easier when he was dead.

Feeling The Immortal's fingers tighten around her own, she looked down at the pale hand that enclosed her own and, responding, Carlo opened it in a caress. Running from one side of the palm to the other, his life line was a thick heavy crease in the flesh broken by a series of deep knots and, curiously, she wondered at its similarity to her own. Her Mom had commented on it once - wondering what the two sharp twists in it might mean – but she'd just laughed it off. After her run-in with The Master though, she'd sometimes worried about the second knot. The one that looked like a knife scar; cutting her life in half before it slowly faded back in again. Only on the night sheíd turned to jump from Glory's tower, had its meaning finally become clear.

"Baffy. You do not answer me."

Frowning, Carlo withdrew his hand from her and pushed it deep into his pocket. The action was casual enough, but the sudden tension in his body made her curious about what she had just seen.

"I think, as you said, you need some time to think. Maybe you will consider what Ihave said."

Seven knots. Carlo had seven of them. Seven to her two. Watching his back as he walked away, she found herself wondering why. Why an Immortal man might have died seven times and why, stranger still, he'd never once thought to mention it to her

ooooooooooooooooooo

The green display of her alarm clock glowed faintly, illuminating the nightstand in front of it and, lying curled inside her quilt, Buffy stared silently at it. 1.55am again. Seemed like it was always 1.55am.

For about the fourth time since she'd gone to bed five hours before, she considered getting up, maybe making herself a cup of coffee. But then Dawn would probably hear her and get up too, and she had no desire to tell her any more about what had happened than she already had. As it was, her explanation had been stilted; punctuated with long, painful silences and all she'd really said was that Spike was safe and recovering in a nearby hospital, but didn't want to see either of them. Unsurprisingly, her sister's reaction had been a mixture of confusion and anger, both with Spike's rejection and with Buffy's refusal to explain further, and the resulting mood between them was now more than a little strained.

She knew she was in the wrong, but her old defense mechanism – don't talk about it and it won't hurt so much – refused to be countermanded. She was in crash position, still curled tight against the shock of nearly losing Spike a second time, reeling from what he'd said to her afterwards and the idea of explaining how that felt to someone else was horrifying. Dawn couldn't understand. She wasn't a child, but she'd never been in love either and, as real as her sympathy would be, it was no substitute for empathy.

Finally giving up on the idea of sleep, she sighed and turned on her bedside light. Her two favourite rings; the one Mom had given her and the silver one she'd bought in Capri, lay on top of the novel she'd been trying to finish for the last three weeks and, reaching out for it, she knocked them both to the floor.

"God…dammit!"

They'd rolled right under the bed and in the end she had to get out to reach them, grasping around in the dustbunny-filled darkness until her fingers closed over a thick sheaf of papers. The memory of what it was came back to her, even before she'd drawn it out. The Council's dossier on The Immortal; everything Giles and the small number of surviving Watchers had managed to piece together, had been crammed into single file-folder and secured with three sturdy elastic bands. Fastened to the front, his elegant copperplate hand covered several sheets of thick cream-coloured paper and the sight of it filled her with equal measures of affection and guilt.

"…_approach with the utmost caution, as I trust you always do. I should warn you Buffy that his expertise in nearly all of the martial arts disciplines is quite legendary, as is his reputation as a womanizer and completely amoral seducer of impressionable…"_

"Ok. So tell me something I don't already know."

Rolling her eyes, she flipped to read the reverse.

"…_many legends and rumours as to how the gift of immortality came to be bestowed upon him, it is a fairly well-substantiated fact that he was, at least at one time, entirely human and may have been originally of North African origin."_

Most of it was familiar - she certainly remembered the part about his 'voracious sexual appetite' - but there were whole chunks that she definitely hadn't read before. Turning to the third page, one particular phrase seemed to jump out from the rest;

"_Council records are hazy on the matter (for obvious reasons), but there is a suggestion that he has been romantically involved with a number of Slayers, although details of their identities are currently unavailable…"_

Unavilable. That was Giles speak for 'details are now toast'. Frowning, Buffy's eyes skimmed swiftly down through the rest of the letter and then returned to reread the paragraph again.

So Carlo had dated a Vampire Slayer before, maybe more than one. The idea wasn't so surprising, he made no secret of his admiration for strong, passionate women, but the fact that he hadn't ever mentioned was …odd. Another in a long line of creepy omissions. Twisting off the bands that held the file together, she sighed with annoyance as, with a soft slither, the photographs contained inside spilled out across the carpet.

Candid 80s Carlo at some big flashy gala dinner, a big-breasted, golden Italian Madonna on his arm. Long-haired dark-eyed Carlo, circa maybe 1910, posed with one hand on the bonnet of a shiny new automobile. Slick-haired 1950s Carlo in a dark-grey suit you could have sharpened pencils on. In every picture a different hair-style, a different era - and a different woman and, curiously now, Buffy slid them out from under each other, fanning them around her in a wide arc.

They were all of a certain type; the women. She'd noticed that before. All dark and curvy, long tumbling hair and big batting eyelashes. She saw them everywhere in Rome and, in all of Carlo's photographs, lithographs, etchings, paintings, the same type of woman was echoed. The classic Italian beauty, the kind of body guys hacked out of slabs of marble and cast in bronze. In other words, the kind that wasn't her.

She remembered how much it had bothered her at first, that she was not his 'usual physical type', but he'd assured her that her 'beauty transcended others'. That her strength and spirit was what he'd been attracted to, not her body or face. At the time it had seemed terribly romantic - that he loved her solely for her mind - but later she'd found herself staring at these photographs a little too often, wondering what it was about _their _minds that had been so damn interesting.

Shaking her head at the memory, she started to gather the pictures back up into a pile when one small image she hadn't noticed before caught her eye. Printed on soft, heavy paper, it showed a young woman in plain, un-fussy Victorian dress with hair pinned severely on top of her head. Studying the portrait intently, she compared the girl's features with those of the other women. She certainly wasn't beautiful and her figure was nothing to shout about, in fact she was a world away from Carlo's usual physical type. Her hands - neatly folded in her lap - were skillfully drawn and in them, twisted through the fingers of her right hand, hung a set of rosary beads and a heavy crucifix.

"Marie-Helen Lumiere." Turning it over, Buffy read the note Giles had scribbled. _"Possible paramour of The Immortal. Born: Marseilles 1880 – Died: Unknown."_

He hadn't noted it, perhaps thinking it would be as obvious to her as it would have been to him, but there was no doubt in her mind that this girl was a Slayer. The eyes in the heart-shaped face were fierce and clear and, although it was only an etching, the lonely, proud expression in them was unmistakable.

Placing her picture gently on top of the others, she stared down at it for a long time, before closing the file and climbing back under the covers. Beside her on the nightstand the clock's glowing display showed the time as 2.15am and, closing her eyes, she tried to visualize something that would bring sleep. A softly flowing river, sun through leaves, but the image of Spike's face; the expression as he'd turned on her angrily, sprang to life behind her eyes again like a movie.

_"That's what made the difference between me and a thousand other vamps. I don't give up. I never give up. You of all people should know that."_

Opening her eyes, she stared at the ceiling. But he _had_ given up. He'd given up on her. Why, when he'd never faltered before? When he'd given up everything just to give her what she needed. Why when he'd never given up on anything before in his whole undead life?

ooooooooooooooooooo

"Buffy? Are you awake?"

A soft tapping woke her and, rolling to one side, she nudged the alarm clock round to face her. The shutters on her windows blocked the light out so effectively that it could be noon and she would never know it and, grimacing, she saw that – in fact – that's pretty much what it was. Almost midday. At least she had slept a little then, in between the recurring episodes of Spike-rejection and disturbingly vivid dreams about the pale, Victorian Slayer.

A second knock, a little louder than the first, and this time Dawn's voice held a hint of a tremor.

"Buffy? Are you still asleep? I have to talk to you."

"No. I'm…up. Now." Reaching for her jeans, she almost tripped over the file, kicking some of the photographs loose again. Her foot slid on one and, grabbing it up, she groaned as she saw it was 1950s shot. The slicked-back Al Pacino look was _so_ very him. "You can come in."

Throwing open the shutters, she turned to see that Dawn was dressed for the street. Dark glasses pushed up on her head, some lipstick, her most expensive purse and a fabulous soft buckskin jacket that, if she remembered rightly, had been a birthday present to Buffy from Carlo. Letting it pass, she looked around for her comfortable sneakers.

"Going out?"

Dawn's lips were a thin line, "I've been out already. I told you. _It's noon_."

OK. So she was still pissed at her. That was understandable she supposed. Dawn hated being kept in the dark about anything, particularly her sister's love-life, and by the looks she was giving her, she felt especially aggrieved this time. Finding one sneaker under her chair and another by the door, she turned to meet her accusatory glare with a weary sigh.

"Look Dawn, I told you everything I could, ok? I just…I don't want to talk about it right now. Can we just…leave it?"

"I went to see Spike."

Her voice was cold and clipped and, biting back a curse, Buffy threw back her head in exasperation.

"Godammit Dawn! Didn't I tell you…"

The words hadn't even left her lips and her sister's face crumpled. Dropping her head, she covered her face with her hands and slumped onto the bed. The sight of her narrow shoulders shaking with sobs was more than Buffy could bear and, after a second or two, she sat down beside her.

"It's ok."

Dawn scrubbed her knuckles against her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I was just so mad at him for…not wanting us." Sniffing, she picked at the stitching of her purse. "I just wanted to tell him…that he was an asshole. But then the yellow Doctor guy said I couldn't go in…because…he was resting, but I snuck around through the emergency exit and…Carlo was there." She swallowed, "At first I thought he was checking his heartbeat or something. He had his hand on him, on his chest, smiling, but then I noticed he didn't have a stethoscope or anything. And then he moved a little - and I saw Spike's face." Her voice cracked and she stared up at her sister with wide blue-green eyes. "He was in pain, Buffy. I think what Carlo was doing was _hurting him_."

She'd heard Dawn's words, but now she was no longer listening. Inside her chest, her heart felt as if it were trying to escape - beating so hard that it was almost painful - and, laying a hand to it, she stared down at the pictures at her feet. Dark-eyed, dark-haired beauties – all of them. All of Carlo's many conquests. All but a small, plain French girl – a Slayer. What had drawn Carlo to her? Her strength? Her power? Or like her, had there been something inside her he'd wanted, something that only she could give him? Something he was willing to do anything to obtain.

Lifting his picture from the floor she stared deep into his black fathomless eyes.

"What_ are_ you?" she said.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Monday afternoons were always busy in emergency rooms, she remembered that from all the time she'd spent hanging around Sunnydale General. People waited for two whole days because they didn't want to bother calling their doctor with their silly little problems over the weekend and then, on Monday, they'd flood the ER like a crowd of aggrieved, demanding children wanting to be seen by someone immediately. It had never occurred to Buffy that demons would be similar to humans in this respect but, glancing around the packed waiting area of the clinic, she found herself silently thanking whatever deities they all worshipped for providing such handy cover.

The place was heaving. A menagerie of monsters sat, squatted and stood all around her, muttering, growling and whining their complaints to anyone who would listen and, across the room, she could see that Carlo's yellow-spotted friend Vittorio was fully occupied by them. As a bonus the nurse beside him seemed to be the only one on duty and, sidling through the entrance, Buffy walked casually but swiftly over to the rank of wheelchairs on the right. OK. So...so far, so good.

Leaving Dawn outside in the car had definitely been the smart thing to do. Her little sister had already proved that her heart still ruled her head as far as Spike was concerned and, after sharing even a little of her fear for his safety, the youngest Summers had been ready to wage full scale war on anyone who might mean him harm, including Carlo.

_"OK - he might be the finest-looking guy alive but if he thinks he can suck out my friend's soul and get away with it then he'd better damn well think again!"_

_"We don't know for sure yet that's what he was doing..."_

_"Buffy, I **saw** him. He was just like that creepy cat in that movie, the one that sits on the little kid's chest and sucks his breath."_

_"All I'm saying is..."_

_"I know. It turned out to be the little brown troll guy. But I still say the cat was way creepier."_

In the end the only way to keep her quiet her had been to hand her the car-keys and tell her to 'keep the motor running'. A gangly, over-excited getaway driver had to be less dangerous than a gangly, over-excited sidekick, although right now any distraction would have been welcomed. The double doors that led back to the private rooms were a good fifty metres away, directly in Vittorio's line of sight and, scooting one of the chairs out of line, Buffy held her breath as she swung it in neatly beside a huge elephant-headed creature that was slowly lumbering towards the toilets. Peering sideways, the thing's eyes seemed to question her and, keeping pace, she flashed him a nervous smile.

"What's the betting that once you get there you don't want to go, right?"

It was further than she remembered to Spike's room, although maybe it was just her crazily banging heart and heightened senses that made it seem that way. Every empty length of corridor stretched out ahead of her like a yawning trap but, keeping her eyes and ears trained for the sound of voices, she pushed the chair onwards as casually as she could. Humans weren't unheard of here - or at least human-shaped demons _- _so there was no reason for anyone to stop her. Still, the idea that her soon-to-be-_very_-ex-lover might be waiting for her around the next corner was enough to bring her out in a thin sheen of sweat.

The fact was she still had no idea of his motives, which made guessing his next move nearly impossible. Carlo's mysterious unpredictability had always been one of his most attractive qualities - one of the things that had so drawn her to him in the first place - although at the time she had allowed herself to believe that, in this case, mysterious didn't necessarily equal 'evil'. With a shiver, she realised just how much danger she might have put herself in, not to mention Dawn, by letting her guard down so easily. Gritting her teeth, she shook her head yet again at her own stupidity. Wicked energy wins again. Why was it that, even after all this time, shewas_ still_ so darned predictable?

oooooooo

After hearing Dawn's description, Buffy hadn't been exactly sure what she'd find in Spike's hospital room, but a relatively healthy-looking vampire, silently watching TV, had probably not been at the top of the list of possibilities. Watching him through the glass, she almost smiled at the familiarity of the scene before she remembered her purpose and pushed open the door.

His face, as she entered, briefly registered surprise before becoming as emotionless as a snowdrift. Eyes shifted from her to the wheelchair and he studied it for a second.

"So what brings you here? Don't tell me you're a candy-striper as well now?"

The hard flippant edge to his tone felt like a knife between her ribs but, ignoring it, she pushed the chair over to the side of the bed and opened the closet there. Inside lay his belt, rings and a bill-fold and, transferring them into her purse, Buffy closed it again and turned to face him.

"I'm taking you out of here. Now can you stand or do I have to lift you into this thing?"

It took a moment or two for him to register her words. The intensity in her voice seemed to have unsettled him, his lips opening as if he was going to answer, but then they closed again and his expression went blank. Turning back to the muted television set at the end of the bed, he lifted his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug.

"I thought we'd covered all of this yesterday? I told you, you don't have to worry about me any more Slayer. Docs have fixed me up good. I'll be right as rain in no time."

"_Slayer_?"

Her eyes dropped to the floor and she gave a hollow laugh. _Slayer._ When was the last time he'd called her that? Probably just after he'd gotten back with his new soul, when he was still trying to pretend he was the 'same old Spike', the one without all the messy complex emotions. _Slayer._ It was a word they'd both used to keep distance between them.

"Just when was it you stopped loving me?"

The words were out of her mouth before she'd even had a chance to edit them; make them sound a little less raw and needy. Clenching her jaw, she forced herself to look at his face.

"Can you tell me? I mean when was it _exactly_? Was there a morning when you just woke up and thought 'hey...over that'? Or was it more of a lightning bolt?

You see, when you came here back in May, I know you still felt it then. You had to. And then at the apartment, it was like part of you was still there. I know you saw me with Carlo and that Angel probably told you to back off, but I know you still loved me then. I _know_ you did. So what I don't get is when all that changed. And how? I mean, how is it you just_ stop loving someone _that you've spent almost your whole life looking for and waiting for and wanting?" It sounded desperate, even to her own ears, but somehow she couldn't stop herself from asking the question. "Do you even _remember _what you said to me that night before the Hellmouth? Because I do. I remember every single word."

The silence that stretched between them was palpable and, frowning deeply, Spike reached a hand up to rub at his head. It was a casual enough gesture, but then his fingers began to tangle in his hair, twisting it into knots, and for a second Buffy was eerily reminded of his days in the school basement.

"Spike. It's ok...I mean you don't...have to tell me. Not if you don't want to I mean."

"No...."

He was genuinely troubled now, his face a mask of confusion and, after hesitating for a second, Buffy sat down on the bed beside him. The corridor outside was still deserted, but she guessed that it was only a matter of time now until someone came by to check on the patients.

"...I don't...know."

His manner of speech was oddly stilted, the similarity to the old basement-Spike was becoming truly disturbing and, against her better judgement, she reached for his hand and threaded her fingers through his. To her intense relief, he didn't pull away.

"What don't you know?"

"When I stopped. Being in love with you I mean. I don't...exactly know when that...was. Now you come to mention it."

Cocking his head to one side, he strained as if he were trying to hear something; something far off and difficult to discern. Then he started to speak.

"There was...I had this dream before. While I was back in the box. You were asleep in bed, at home and you looked...so beautiful. All golden and light. Except I wasn't _looking_ at you...I _was_ you. I mean - I was me still - but I was in your body. And then in walks The Immortal and...shit...I'm really fucking pleased to see him! I mean really really fucking happy, like I love him or some shit and then he leans over me and puts his hand right on me - I mean you - and then... w_eird_." He laughed and the sound was like jarring, rusted metal.

From his first words, Buffy had felt a creeping chill of realisation and now, inside her chest, she felt her heart start its crazed hammering again. His dream was starting to sound an awful lot like hers and, even though she still had no idea what that meant, she had to know how it ended. Continuing, Spike closed his eyes.

"Then he opens up his shirt and inside there's this great gaping fucking hole in his chest. I mean _massive, _the size of a frigging fist almost and he shows me that - inside - there are these fucking _picture frames_. Loads of these little decorative picture frames with really old-looking pictures of girls in and they're all stuffed down in the hole, all covered with gore.

And then he reaches into this big hole and gets out one of the pictures to show me and..._it's you_, except it actually takes me a second or two to recognise you because you're all dressed up in this wacky Victorian get-up, with your hair all starchy. But when I do - I suddenly realise...it's gone. _I don't feel anything for you any more_. No love, no like...crazy passionate thing...just nothing. It's like...his showing me you in that picture-frame just made it all...go away."

His voice faded, petering out to nothing and, opening his eyes, he stared at her in bewilderment. Took a sudden sharp breath inwards.

"So yeah...I think it was...then."

Behind them, the door suddenly slammed inwards and the sound exploding into the tiny silent room almost threw them both out of their seats. Instinctively blocking Spike, Buffy scrambled for a weapon before registering that the figure standing in the doorway wasn't moving. Pressing his hands together, the yellow-skinned Vittorio A'math, looked nervously over his shoulder, blinking huge, slitted almond eyes.

"I tried to stop him, but he's desperate now. I don't think he cares what he does any more. He thinks I just look the other way, but I'm still a doctor. A life is still a life."

Clearing his throat, he took a decisive step towards them.

"You need to go. If he finds out you've been here, he won't wait any longer. He'll kill you just like he killed the others."

oooooooo

_The others._

The demon's last words still rung in her ears long after they'd made their escape. Bundling a blanket-smothered Spike into the car with more haste than tenderness, they'd barely had time to acknowledge Dawn's presence in the front seat before she'd stepped on the gas and peeled the little Fiat away from the kerb and into traffic.

"Where to?" Darting a look at them over her shoulder, her sister's hair whipped back in the slipstream from the window. "La casa?"

"No."

The apartment was out of the question now. If they chose to believe the doctor dire warnings, Carlo was a threat to them both and, until she could figure out why, hanging out anywhere he could easily find them seemed like a really bad idea.

"No. Head for the Institute."

It was closer than Andrew's place and at least it was well defended. Looking across the back seat at Spike, Buffy gave him a weak smile.

"Work has to be the last place anyone's going to look for me right?"

"Right."

His expression seemed to be a mixture of bemusement and resignation and, unsure of what to do, she looked down at her hands. It was almost as if Spike had stopped caring she existed. The thing that he'd said had gone from him, all the feelings, all the passion he'd ever felt for her, they had a discernible weight. It was the lack of that she felt now and it's absence left her desolate.

"Look, I don't understand what's going on here any more than you do, ok, but I think Carlo..._The Immortal_...I think he did something to you. While you were asleep. Maybe even before...I don't know. That dream you had...I had one almost the same. I think maybe he needs something from me, something that he couldn't get from anyone else..."

Just visible through the folds of his blanket, Spike's eyes were fixed on the city through the windshield.

"So what's the plan?"

"The plan?"

His tone was hard to analyse. Was he still pissed at her for treating him like a cripple or was it something else.

"There is a plan I take it? I mean there normally is in these situations right? Old Rupert poised and ready to swing into action?"

"Action?" She felt like she was just echoing his words now, parrot-fashion. "No. I mean there isn't a plan yet exactly. And no Giles. Yet. And there won't be. At least not until we can figure out what's going on."

"With the weird dreams and shit?"

He_ was_ angry with her, although exactly why she couldn't understand.

"With the fact that Carlo seems to have somehow changed the way you feel about me, yes. And about the fact that he's apparently intent on tearing my heart out with his bare hands. I'd say that constitutes more than just 'weird dreams and shit'."

"Yeah."

There was a long pause. Studying his face intently Buffy tried to discern just what it was that was bothering him. Was it his breakdown before, the sudden lapse in self-control that had meant he had been willing to trust her again? Pulling the blanket down to cover his hands, Spike cleared his throat.

"So the Immortal...he's evil now then. Have I got that right?"

"Maybe." It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. "Maybe he always was."

"Right. And you just couldn't see it before because...what...that legendary great dick of his kept getting in your way?"

His words felt like a slap and, stiffening slightly, Buffy took a sharp breath inwards.

"I didn't see it because I wasn't looking for it I guess."

Somehow the phrase didn't ring entirely true. _Why_ hadn't she seen it? When Giles had warned her? When everything in her long and chequered experience with men should have told her that tall, dark and mysterious always tended to equal 'bad'.

"I don't know. Maybe I didn't want to see it." Frowning, she turned to look out of the window. The city outside was bathed in dazzling golden light, the sky a pure cobalt blue, but suddenly it all seemed colourless. "Maybe I just didn't care."

"Oh right..." The sarcasm almost dripped from his voice and, looking up, Buffy saw that his eyes were suddenly bright with anger. "Right...'cause you were all still so broken up about poor old Spike? So fucking broken-hearted about losing me that you bravely squared your pretty little jaw and went and shagged the first gorgeous immortal Italian adonis you could lay your hands on."

"Spike..."

"And, not that it matters now or anything, but _as_ you happened to bring it up earlier...yes. I bloody well _do _remember what I said." His hands on the seat were balled into fists, the knuckles white and livid through the skin. "I remember pretty much every word as it happens. Just as well really. Because it seems like I was the only one who meant it."

The air between them seemed to have dropped twenty degrees and for the longest time Buffy didn't trust herself speak. When she finally said the words though, the conviction in them surprised even her.

"_I meant it._"

His eyes still blazing, Spike pulled the blanket up around his face and sunk down lower onto the seat.

"What does it matter? Whatever it was, it's gone now. And right now I'm tempted to be grateful."

"It matters because _you_ meant it too."

He wasn't looking at her now, but something pushed her on.

"Look, I don't understand what happened to make you act this way or what the hell's going on between us any more, but I am sure of one thing. _ This isn't how it's supposed to end with us. _And you can keep on telling me this crap till hell freezes over, but there is no way I am ever going to believe that you just...gave up on us. That's _bullshit _and we both know it. _You still love me_. Just like I still love you. And that's not something you just give up on, ok."

His whole body felt rigid, like he was made of carved stone, but pulling him around by the shoulders, Buffy forced him to look at her. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes burned with a fierce blue heat that betrayed his emotions.

"You sound pretty sure of yourself."

"I'm sure of you."

"Even if I say different?"

"I'm not sure you know what you're saying right now."

"Think I'm under some kind of spell or something? That it?"

"I don't know."

Letting go of him, Buffy slid back against the car door. Outside the window the city slid by them like a golden zoetrope.

"But I'm sure as hell going to find out."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Feeling safe was something that Buffy rarely experienced now, and hadn't for a very long time. Safety was a feeling that went with home and family, with friends and with people you trusted, safety was in numbers and these days, she was so often alone.

She kept Dawn safe, she'd _fought _for that. For her sister to know that she would always be there for her, that a home would always be waiting somewhere, that had been her priority for over a year now. She tried never to be careless or reckless with her own life any more, she tried to guard her own safety for Dawn's sake, to make sure her sister would never have to go through that again. The responsibility had brought her a strength and a sureness in herself she'd never realised she lacked until they moved here, away from all the people who she'd relied on for so long. Stepping aside as The Slayer and sharing her power with the others had been the beginning of a new life for her, but it wasn't until the move to Rome that Buffy had finally felt like an adult. And real safety, the kind that blankets and warms and protects and absolves you of any blame, that was something it seemed adults didn't get to have.

Spike had made her feel safe and, more than with anyone else, she had allowed herself to lean on him. From the very first he had been her equal in strength and skill; their fights leaving her breathless and shaken and, with the gift of hindsight, she could now see why. There had been a balance there. Grudgingly admitted at first, and then later _revelled in_. Fighting Spike was like fighting her shadow-self, frustrating and exhilarating in equal measures. He blocked her, she parried him, he attacked, she defended. In retrospect the evolution of that relationship - from feet and fists to mouths and hands and bodies - seemed almost inevitable now, like growing up. Spike had been her first lover as an adult; the first man she had loved as a woman rather than a girl, and the memory of that love and trust was something that she treasured now, a little fire she used to warm herself when the job of being a grown-up got too hard. The memory of the last time she had felt truly safe.

The journey from the car through the house's rear courtyard, up the many stairs and into the Institute's makeshift sleeping quarters, had taken every last ounce of strength Spike had and, although he had allowed both of them to support him most of the way, it was clear that the effort had been too much for him. His skin, already cold and pale at the best of times, had taken on a translucent quality that seemed to alarm all three of them equally and, after only a few more expletives about 'mithering bloody women', he'd passed out on the bed they'd made up for him like an exhausted child.

"Do you think he's going to be ok?"

"I think so. We need to find out what happened though."

The sight of Dawn's hand going out to him, tenderly tucking the coverlet around his shoulders, brought a lump to her throat.

"Well he's safe now."

"Yeah."

In silence, they both watched him for a minute; perfect dark lashes fluttering in his sleep, his head was thrown back, arched against the pillow, one hand splayed half open.

"You want I should go get Andrew, fill him in on what's been happening? He doesn't know anything yet."

Shaking her head, Buffy started to object before thinking better of it. Andrew might be a idiot but he was pretty great at figuring out the magical stuff. Not as good as Willow of course, but that was one phone call she was hoping she wouldn't have to make.

"OK, but don't bring him back here. Spike needs peace and quiet for a while."

"'kay."

After she'd gone, Buffy had just watched him for a while, half wanting him to wake and half grateful he didn't. When he'd rolled over on his side, she'd briefly thought about climbing into the bed beside him and just...curving her body around his. The idea made her feel almost dizzy with need and, uncomfortable with the feeling, she went over to sit in the armchair instead. Getting him to come with them had been hard enough, messing with his head now that she finally had him alone again was probably not the best way to start mending fences.

Restless, she looked around for something to read and picked up a Vogue one of the girls had left before realising that it was written in Spanish. The Institute shelves were full of the same kinds of books that Giles had spent years forcefeeding her, making the likelihood of finding light reading material pretty low but, optimistically, she skimmed the spines in the nearest bookshelf for something that might help pass the time.

_'Paevin's Compendium of Shape-Shifters' _sounded way more interesting than it actually was, she knew that for a fact, lots of facts and science and not nearly enough anecdotal weirdness. The same went for '_The Source Book of Demon Dimensions'_ and that old party favourite _'Incubi, Succubi, Mara and Night Hags' _and, pushing them to the back of the shelf, she picked up a couple of the smaller Watcher journals instead.

Although they were both in English, the first one she opened was written in such insanely purple prose she gave up with disgust after just two pages. Gah, was that how Giles had written about her? Composing essays about every little detail of her training? Luckily the second one was written in a far easier to read style, ironic as the author was obviously not a native English speaker. His name, Louis de Fronsac,was faded with age but still just visible on the leather cover, and settling herself back into the leather armchair, Buffy started to read.

_"January 6th, 1901: _

_Have set my Slayer a number of tasks to accomplish this week, with luck it will improve her concentration and focus her energies more effectively. She has a supremely strong will sometimes I think perhaps she does not respect me as much as she would an older man but her heart is good. She is passionate and believes in the work strongly, although I fear that - despite her maturity - her 'enthousiasme' will always overrule her 'logique'. _

_Yesterday she almost bested me with the rapier again, her skill with it has become quite considerable in just the short time we have been together. I think soon I may have to concede that she has surpassed me and find her a more worthy tutor although, for the time being at least, I would prefer her to remain by my side. I could not say it to M. Piper when he visited last year, but my charge becomes more dear to me now with every passing week. I am so very proud of my Marie-Helen."_

Marie-Helen. The sight of her name struck a deep silent note within her and, checking the date, she weighed the small book in her hand for a moment before skimming forward through the pages. Tucked into the centre was a portrait photograph. It was a slightly different pose, but it was the same girl from the etching Giles had sent her.

_"June 17th, 1901_

_After our ride this morning, Mslle Lumiere told me a little more today of the circumstances surrounding her birth and how she came to be orphaned. When she spoke of her Mother's death to cholera, she was moved to tears and at once took my hand to steady herself. Her small hand, so dwarfed by my own, stirred emotions that, I confess, were not those of a guardian. I excused myself and walked for a long time in the gardens to gather my thoughts._

_I had never thought to experience such a thing. The duty of a Watcher is a sacred one and his regard for his Slayer is to be without question. I comfort myself only with the knowledge that Marie is not a child, although I am bound to treat her as such._

_June 20th, 1901_

_Marie came to my room this evening, hours after I had seen her to her own bed. She was in a state of undress, hair and clothing dishevelled and - when I asked her reasons for her appearance - became distressed. It seemed that a dream of portent had horrified her and rekindled memories of her childhood. She clung to me and I could not refuse to comfort her, although all my senses railed against it. _

_For M.Piper to assign her to me as my first commission I now believe was a test and a most distasteful one. Marie is not a girl and I am not long a man. I think perhaps he means me to disgrace myself somehow and bring shame to my family, but I will not submit._

_However, I fear that Marie has begun to share my feelings. She is a proud, solitary young woman with many hidden scars, but under my care she has finally begun to blossom. To bring a smile to her lips is a joyous thing and her rare laugh is like music. Sundays have become particularly dear to us, as I know we both eagerly anticipate our necessary proximity when seated in church. When we take our leave, her hand on my arm sends a shiver through me and brings a blush to her cheeks that is indescribably lovely. _

_That I might someday be permitted to act on these emotions is my dearest wish, whilst also my deepest fear."_

Wow. A Watcher in love with his Slayer. The idea was pretty squicky, but the reality - at least this one - was actually kind of romantic. This Louis was obviously pretty young and Wesley hadn't seemed that much older than them when he'd been sent to relieve Giles. Of course she hadn't ever thought about him that way, but Cordy certainly hadn't bothered about the age-gap too much. The memory almost brought a smile until she remembered that they were both gone now.

_"August 17th, 1901:_

_An invitation arrived at the house from the Count and Contesse de Mont-Claire today addressed solely to 'Mademoiselle Lumiere'. I was most displeased, which seemed to amuse Marie greatly. She is a great admirer of the Count's legendary skill with a bow, although I suspect that her motives for inveigling herself are less prosaic. I have heard that the couple socialise a great deal and have a reputation for lavish parties and improper behaviour. Paris appears to be awakening a side of Marie that I had hoped was dormant. _

_Il doit être prévu. A Slayer called at so late an age was always certain to have difficulty adjusting to the idea of solitude and I fear that my continued inability to return her affections is finally pushing her away._

_August 20th, 1901:_

_Marie returned very late from the party last night; flushed and bright-eyed. When I questioned her, she related a lengthy account of an encounter with a female Mara and, when further pressed, showed me several red marks on her throat. Her demeanor was distinctly odd, almost defiant, and I did not believe her story. Claudette, who I sent along as chaperon, allowed that Marie had been long from her sight during the latter part of the evening and that a number of eligible gentlemen had expressed interest in her._

_After further enquiries I was able to ascertain that Marie was alone for a time in the gardens with an acquaintance of the Count's, a M. Coeur-Foncé. The fellow is apparently a man of some means and well thought of in many circles, but I am unable to rest until I know that he was not responsible for Marie's appearance. I have sent to London for details of his family and dealings and, if necessary, will confront him myself with my suspicions._

_I am forced to ask myself though, if my concern is entirely unselfish. A Slayer may not marry or bear children, that much is clear, but am I wrong to deny Marie-Helen any happiness? My blood boils when I think of a man touching her, but she is a passionate and emotional young woman and I am unable to watch over her every moment of the day. I want only to protect her, but in doing so am I also preventing her from the experiences of life? Is my love for her merely a pretty cage that I wish to imprison her in? I must meditate on this further before confronting Marie again, if only to allow time for my own feelings to be hidden. Perhaps a love affair would be good for her, as long as the gentleman is worthy._

_August 21st_

_A telegram arrived from M. Piper at first light this morning. It is worse than I might ever have feared. Marie-Helen has become consort to that most vile and devious of animals; The Immortal."_

Finally seeing it in black and white, it didn't shock her at all. Rereading the lines again, Buffy studied the tiny portrait of the other Slayer and wondered at Carlo's attraction to her. _'Passionate and emotional'_ de Fronsac had said. A lonely, orphaned young woman desperate for affection and starved of life and, closing her eyes briefly, she frowned. Marie-Helen was an lot like herself really.

Further on there were large gaps in the dates and, in the later entries, de Fronsac's handwriting became erratic and scratchy. Skimming over them, Buffy's eyes picked out phrases; _'Marie missing for days', 'I am at a loss' _before they finally settled on the words she had unconsciously been searching for.

_"October 19th_

_Woke from a most dark and unsettling dream. The details fade, but I now feel strangely relieved of my anxieties regarding Marie."_

A gap in the entry and a slight shift in hand-writing showed it had been completed later that day;

_"She has been gone for almost 5 days now. This morning I called again at The Immortal's house only to be met by a manservant who informed me that 'Monsieur - il est parti'. He could not say where, but I assume back to Roma permanently. When I telephoned M. Piper in London to inform him of Marie's disappearance, he was furious. I have lost my commission and my Slayer. I asked him to advise the Council in Italy to be on the lookout for Marie-Helen, that she may still be in the company of The Immortal."_

There was a brutally short final entry;

_"October 25th_

_There is word today that a Slayer was called in Alsace. I am to return to Marseilles by the afternoon train."_

The rest of the book was blank; sheet after sheet of smooth cream-coloured paper that perfectly reflected a life unlived and, closing it, Buffy dropped back in her seat. A new Slayer called could only mean one thing. Marie had been killed, presumably by Carlo, although there was no way of knowing that for certain. Turning the girl's picture over, she studied the writing on the back.

_"Pour mon ami et professeur, vous m'avez donné le monde et je vous remercie"_

Her name and the date underneath, were inscribed in a looping decorative swirl.

"Marie-Helen Lumiere July 1901"

Saying it out loud in the silent room felt strange and, glancing up uneasily, she saw that Spike was awake. Lying on his side in bed, he'd drawn the sheet up around his chest and was watching her; his eyes a deep, calm blue.

"Hey."

Laying the journal down, she walked over to him. At close quarters his skin looked a lot better, more like the healthy deep cream that she remembered and, perching on the edge of the mattress, she smiled.

"You look better. You had us both worried for a while back there."

"I'm fine." He shrugged, although not as coldly as before, she noticed. His gaze went past her to the floor and then to the door. "Dawn gone home?"

"No, she's around. I told her to stay out of your way though. I figured maybe we could do with some privacy."

It was a tiny slip, but as soon as the words were out she felt her cheeks flush with heat.

"I meant _you_. I mean I thought you could do with some quiet after..."

"S'ok..." Rolling back against his pillow, Spike closed his eyes. "I know what you meant."

Rain tapped softly on the window pane and Buffy turned her head to look outside. Heavy gray clouds were crowding the sky, turning the light in the room to a livid silver and she realised that a real thunderstorm was coming. It was pretty unusual for June, but not unheard of. When they'd first come to the city, they'd both been so unused to rain they hadn't even owned waterproof shoes. Then one day, whilst admiring the view from the Spanish Steps, the skies had opened and they'd both been treated to a downpour of what felt like Biblical proportions.

"So you catching up on your studies then? Rupert'll be pleasantly surprised."

Spike's eyes were open again and fixed on her. He nodded his head towards the chair where she had been sitting and, grateful for a topic of conversation, she fetched the book to show him. After studying the name on the cover, he scanned through the diary. Some of the entries held his interest for a moment and after reading a few, he shook his head smiling, before handing it back to her.

"Watcher had a way with words I'll give him that. Never met him, but I hear he went on to better things. Don at Oxford. Quite the authority on dark magicks. Red might have learned a thing or two from him."

"You knew him?"

"Like I said, never met the bloke, but knew his name. Just like I knew hers." Picking up the photograph he tucked it back amongst the pages. "Marie-Helen Lumiere. 19 when she was called, or so they say. Dead after less than a year."

She couldn't think why it had never occurred to her that Spike would have known. 1901 was his golden age; not that long after he had been sired by Drusilla and adopted by Angel and Darla. Not long after he'd killed his first Slayer and, as the realisation hit, she instinctively shrank back from him.

"_Oh my God_. Was she going to be next for you?"

Spike's expression clouded and he drew out the photograph again, turned it over to look at the woman on the other side.

"Supposed to be," he said softly and then dropped it back onto the sheet. His mouth hardened. "I was on a mission remember? Trouble was, in those days, travel took a mite longer and your lot have a habit of dying young."

"So she was dead before you got to Paris?"

Frowning, he nodded slightly; "Some other beastie got to her before I could. Made a right mess of her as well. I almost felt sorry for the little twig."

"A...mess? You saw her?"

Outside the storm had begun in earnest, rain pouring down in grey sheets and silent lightning suddenly illuminated his face. A deep roll of thunder sounded just seconds after.

"Yeah. I paid some creep to take me to her, had to see it with my own eyes after coming half way round the bloody world." He pursed his lips, remembering. "She was down in the sewers. Just thrown down in the dark like a little broken dolly. Whole chest was ripped out, ribs all broken up and sticking out like fucking teeth or something, but on her face she had this pretty little smile, like she was out walking in the sun." He frowned deeply, studying the backs of his fingernails. "Everyone and his dog had been to have a look at her of course, but no one had touched her. No one had taken her away. Reckon maybe they were all as freaked as I was by it."

Buffy realised that her hands were shaking and she squeezed them between her knees.

"You...I mean, did you find out what had killed her?"

He shook his head again and slowly pulled himself up into a sitting position,

"Nope. And I didn't stick around to find out either; whatever it was, it was big and fucking angry. Knew there'd be a new girl called soon enough anyway and..." He stopped - the words catching in his throat - and shot her a sideways look. "Sorry. That was a shitty thing to say."

She shrugged, "It was true."

"Yeah." His lips twitched in a smile, "Not any more though eh?"

"No. Not any more."

Slayers weren't called any more. They were just...born. Slayers like Marie-Helen, warriors who lived alone without family or love, were a thing of the past. She had changed all that.

But still, there was horror. Still there was death waiting for them all, its wide black jaws ready to spring shut, crushing bone and sinew. A Slayer had been murdered, her heart torn out and her body thrown away like garbage, like so many others before her. So many dead before their time. Was Marie the only one Carlo had done this to, or were there others? A long line of girls whose deaths no one had ever cared enough about to connect to each other?

Lost in her thoughts, she barely noticed how cold she had become until Spike's hand descended gently on her shoulder. Pulling the blanket from the bed, he draped it around her, the palm on her back hesitating for a moment before coming to rest there.

"You're shivering," he said.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

This time when she dreamt, she knew who she was immediately.

_Spread with thick, pendulous black clouds, the sky above her head was the colour of fresh arterial blood. Smoke hung in the air like an acrid veil, the unmistakable smell of charring flesh and hair and all around her the dark shapes of people stood or knelt or lay on the ground, eyes glittering, pale, drawn faces turned towards her. Always turned towards her. Asking her to help them. Praying for her to deliver them. This world was one she knew only too well. In this world, she was The Slayer. _

_It felt so real. Smelt so real. Everything was hard and sharp and raw-edged and charged with emotion. Distant fire had turned the horizon a vivid orange and, reaching a hand to her head, she was horrified to find her scalp a mess of short, alien tufts. Her hair had been cut down almost to the roots. _

_"Mama!" _

_From somewhere out of sight, a child's voice crying out brought a feeling of rising panic and, pain suddenly forgotten, she turned wildly from side to side. The voice drew something from her, a nameless wild fear. Her child, it was her own child calling out to her. Where was her son? Opening her mouth, a name tumbled out of her. _

_"Kand'aulo?" _

_Hands reached for her but she threw them off, pushing the crowds aside. Across a courtyard painted with dancing fire-shadows stood the figure of a horned creature, its arms outstretched, and at its feet a small dark-eyed shape struggled, pinned on his back, his arms held to his sides. _

_"Mama! Help me!" _

_One thought now, thrashing like a crazed animal in her chest; not him, please no, not him, take one of the others but still her words stuck, lodged like stones, her gaze resting on the two that held him. Their upturned faces were full of sadness, full of angry despair. She knew these people. They were her friends. Her neighbours. Their children had already been given. Hers was the last. _

_Clutching at her throat with her hand, she saw his eyes widen, black and shining with fear in his small heart-shaped face. He knew what she knew now. _

_"Mama, no..." _

_"I'm sorry..." _

_The words slipped out in a whisper and she dropped to her knees, covering her ears with her hands. She could hear his struggles, the sound of his sandaled feet as the dug into the dirt, his screams of terror. The low, deep roar of the fire as it was banked to an inferno. _

_"No...don't! Mama please...I don't want to die! Please, don't let me die!" _

_I'm so sorry. _

_"No!" _

The child's final ear-splitting scream woke her and suddenly she was alone in the darkness, arms still wrapped tightly around her head, her whole body balled into a rigid fist. Jesus. Confusing, semi-prophetic visions were one thing, but child sacrifices? To creepy bull-headed demons? Whatever happened to dreams about being naked in front of class? Or her dad telling her she was fat? Forcing herself to breathe more deeply, she opened her eyes. Dark and cool, the vaulted high ceiling above her was almost lost in dim shadow and the only light coming into the room seemed to be from a window far over to her left. Pale, silver-blue moonlight. Was it nighttime then? When had nighttime come? And where the hell was she anyway?

Lifting her head, she winced as her skin peeled painfully from the surface it had been resting on. Leather. What the hell had possessed her to go to sleep in a leather chair? She grimaced as the memory slowly came back to her, rolling her head to one side. Across the room, Spike lay with his back to her on the bed, one pale hand resting on his shoulder. Oh yeah. That was it. Things had been going fine, they talked for a while, had even seemed to be getting somewhere and then he'd suggested maybe it 'wasn't such a good idea if they shared a bed'. She'd agreed with him of course, acted like nothing could have been further from her mind, but then for some dumb reason she'd decided to bed down in a freaking armchair rather than share a cot with Dawn downstairs.

The blanket she'd wrapped round herself had gotten twisted round her thighs, cutting off the blood in her legs and, slowly unfolding, she hissed softly as the sensation returned to them. Rubbed at the welts behind her knees where her jeans had cut in.

"Spike?"

Her whisper sounded ridiculously loud, but there was no reaction. Getting up and padding over to the side of his bed, she put a hand out to wake him before hesitating. His face was so serious, brows drawn together in dark angles above shadowed eyelids, his mouth a straight firm line. As she watched, the frown deepened, eyes moving to view some silent inner-drama. Was he dreaming of her? Arguing with her even in his sleep? His lips twitched, the faintest of smiles and, smiling with him, she sat down on the corner of the mattress.

How was it she had managed to put all this from her mind? Every memory of his body, his perfect cool smell, she had cut out of herself; a big jagged hole in the fabric of Buffy. Last year, when she'd finally accepted he was gone, it seemed the only way she could hope to move on. The only way she knew how. And then Carlo had come to fill the hole and, even though she knew he could never hope to fit, she had let him try. She had even worried about it, worried that she might be leading him on, and that thought had only made her try harder, convincing herself as well as him that she was ready for love again.

Turning over in his sleep, Spike snorted softly, drawing a hand across his stomach. His face was just inches from her hand now and, unable to stop herself, she lowered her head onto the pillow beside him, brought her legs up so she was lying full length beside him. The curls at the base of his neck were darker than they had been before, the length a little messier, but that was the only difference. The curve of his neck was the same, the same angled muscles in his shoulders, the same hollow at the base of his throat that fluttered as he slept. Nothing had changed on the outside at all. It was only on the inside that he was different.

Carlo had taken his love for her. That much seemed obvious now and, although the exactly how was still a mystery, she thought she was beginning to understand the why. Ever since she'd found out Spike was still alive, the knowledge that he might eventually return to her had been like a tiny fire in her belly. Sure, she'd tried to ignore it at first, tell herself that it made no difference to her new life, but late at night it had woken her from her sleep, heart pounding with the expectation of what could still be. Finding out Spike was still alive was like finding out Santa Claus really existed and the life she had made for herself, the man she had filled it with, had lost all colour almost overnight.

The Immortal needed her heart, a Slayer's heart, and although she'd really wanted to believe that was some kind of creepy symbolism, Marie-Helen's story had seemed to suggest otherwise. He needed the heart of a Slayer who cared for him, and her ex-lover's reappearance on the scene couldn't have come at a worse time. At the haulage yard she had been convinced that he had come there to kill Spike, but now she wondered if taking the vampire's feelings for her had been the plan all along. She'd turned to Carlo once before when her heart had been broken, so why not a second time?

Downstairs in the hallway, a clock chimed softly five times and, taking a last long look at Spike's sleeping face, she drew herself up into a sitting position and pulled a hand backwards through her tangled hair. All the parts of the puzzle were there, she just needed someone way smarter than she was to put them together. And preferably sometime before she ended up in a sewer with her chest torn open.

oooooooooo

"Giles, it's me. Did I wake you?"

A soft sigh and the faint rustle of bed sheets gave her her answer and she grimaced, glancing at the clock on her desktop. Four-forty. Did that mean it was five-forty in England or three-forty? She could never remember which way the hour went.

"Buffy, it's a quarter to four in the morning. This had better be urgent."

"Sorry. And it is. I mean, I think it is. I may have found something out about Carlo."

"The Immortal?"

"The Immortal. Right."

She thought she could hear him reaching for his glasses, as if having them on improved his hearing or something. The thought almost made her smile, until she remembered what she was about to tell him.

"You know that letter you sent me along with his file..."

"You mean you actually read it?"

"_Eventually. _ Anyway, you mentioned something about him being involved with other Slayers before."

There was a momentary pause on the other end of the line and then the faint click of a switch being turned on. Knowing the layout of his room, she guessed it was the bedside light. She could imagine his expression perfectly; curious, possibly frowning a little. Wondering why, after all his dire warnings, she was finally bothering to ask a few questions.

"There have been rumours. Not a lot of evidence to support them, granted..." He cleared his throat and she could feel him trying to hold back from asking the question. "Why? Have you discovered something to the contrary?"

"You know I haven't."

Her little office room at the Institute was cloaked in darkness, but in the glass doors of the bookcase opposite she could see her own pale reflection.

"I think he killed Marie Lumiere." Saying it out loud at last felt strangely final and she paused, waiting for a reaction. On the other end of the line though, there was only silence. "Did you know that he was seeing her? When she disappeared, I mean?"

"If I'd known for certain, do you honestly believe I wouldn't have told you?"

"But you thought he might have been. You sent me her picture."

"A suspicion and a fact are very different things."

"Giles..."

"Buffy," a deep sigh, "Can you honestly tell me that if I'd presented you with the facts as I know them, that you wouldn't have dismissed them entirely?"

It was hard to put herself back into that person, but grudgingly she had to admit he was probably right. She had been pretty much head-over-heels during those first few weeks.

"I don't know. Maybe I would have…"

"You would have done exactly as you pleased. Just as you always do." Although spoken forcefully, Giles' words were tempered with affection. "I knew from the first time you spoke about him that it was pointless trying to convince you. I had to hope you'd find out for yourself the sort of creature he truly is."

"And if I hadn't?"

"I knew you would. _Eventually_."

God. How was it he still had so much faith in her? Despite herself, Buffy laughed and after a second she heard him do the same, a low, wry sound that made her suddenly feel homesick. Made her long to have him next door or across town, somewhere she could get to easily when she needed him. Closing her eyes, she tried to pretend that he was.

"Giles. I need you to find out something for me. Only I'm not sure how you're going to do it."

"Let me worry about that."

His warm, fatherly tone made it that much harder to ask the question she had to next.

"I need to know how many Slayers have been killed by having their hearts torn out."

"Their..."

The word echoed back at her faintly and she frowned as she realised how bad that had to sound.

"Hearts, yeah. Torn out. By demons or...things unknown."

"...Alright." The slight unsteadiness in his voice was partially masked by the sounds of his search for pen and paper. Clearing his throat again, he tired to assume an air of professional calm, "Within what time frame exactly?"

"I'm not sure. How far do the Council's records go back?"

"What's left of them...not far. But I have other sources. My own library of journals, and Phillip Robson still has a fairly extensive..."

"Just let me know when you've found something."

"It may take a day or so." There was another long pause and she waited patiently for the words she knew had to come. "Buffy, if you're in trouble at all..."

"It's ok." She couldn't help noticing how much surer of herself she sounded than she felt. "I can handle it."

"I suppose it's pointless asking you to be careful?"

"Totally." Her voice softened, "But I'll try."

Dropping the receiver back into its cradle, she stared at it silently for a while, her head resting in her hands. Was it wrong that she'd secretly wanted to accept his help? Something about a fight to the death with Carlo filled with foreboding. He knew her weaknesses intimately as well as her strengths and, if his motives really were as dark as she thought they were, she was at a distinct disadvantage.

oooooooooo

"I mean, all I really know about him is that he's over 700 years old, and has a serious problem with strong women."

"_Serious_ problem."

The Institute's kitchen was a fairly big room, originally intended for a much larger household than just the two or three students that didn't live permanently at the communal house in Barberini. Even so Buffy couldn't help noticing that Dawn's breakfast preparations had managed to dirty pretty much every available surface in it. Having transferred a piece of hot, maple-syrup-covered heaven to her mouth though, she had to admit that any amount of mess was probably worth it. Seeing Dawn awake and mobile before ten was a rarity in itself, but dressed and making pancakes at six a.m had to be a first.

"Good?"

"Mmfgud."

"I whipped in a little honey and cinnamon with the buttermilk." Grinning widely, her sister dropped another spoonful of batter onto the skillet. "I think I'll make them my signature dish. Maybe whip up a batch for the others when we start training again. Fist food." Turning on her sharply, she narrowed her eyes. "That is going to be soon, right?"

"Soon, I promise."

"'Cause they're all going crazy with boredom you know? Rosa's even started knitting."

"They can train without me."

"'Buffy, you know they look up to you. And besides, we're going to need back-up if this thing goes down. You know that right?"

"'Goes down'? What are we, 'Goodfellas'?"

"We're an army, remember? One for all and all that...merda." She flipped the last of the cakes and turned off the stove. "No more going it alone, ok?"

"Yes, Mom."

Sliding the two last cakes off onto her plate, Dawn took a place opposite her at the table.

"So Giles is going to call back?"

"He said tomorrow."

"What d'you think he'll find?"

"I'm not sure." Folding another cake in half, Buffy frowned, "Nothing I hope. I just have this feeling, you know? That Marie-Helen wasn't the first. And that doctor at the hospital? The yellow one? He said 'the others'. What else could that mean?"

"But...why?"

"Why what?"

"Why does he need hearts? And why did he pretend to like you for so long if all he wanted to do was rip your guts out?"

With her mouth full of pancake, all Buffy could do was shrug. Dawn poured herself a glass of milk. Downing it in one, she threw back her hair with a shake of her head.

"And why does it have to be a _Slayer's _heart anyway? What's wrong with just regular hearts?"

"Slayer's blood's special, that's why."

Spike's voice coming from the doorway started her almost out of her skin. Dropping her knife onto her plate with a clatter, she stared at him open-mouthed. In the cool morning light his skin was milk-white and his hair and torso wet with perspiration.

"Oh my g...! How the hell...how are you... walking ?"

"Got a theory about that."

Leaning heavily against the doorframe, his body was shaking. He stared down at his legs and frowned deeply.

"Just put my feet on the floor to see how it felt and..." he shook his head, "Doesn't make any bloody sense. I should have been laid up for weeks."

Edging forward, he steadied himself on the edge of the stove before drawing upright. The sight of the muscle in his forearm pulled Buffy's eyes to it like magnet. Standing out from the flesh, it looked like corded iron.

"Last time I was crippled it was a month before I was right. Weeks after that before I could trust my legs. This time...a few days. There's no other way I can explain it."

"What are you talking about?"

Spike's head went down, his expression unreadable and, unable to just sit and watch any longer, Buffy moved toward him. As her hand touched his shoulder he flinched away as if burned.

"_Don't!_"

He almost shouted, such horror and anger in his voice and, starting backwards, she felt her heart lurch. Why was he so angry with her? His eyes radiated pain, every angle of his body so rigid with it he was almost trembling.

"Just..._don't_ touch me alright?" He was breathing deeply now, trying to regain his control. "What you were saying before. He wants your heart because it's special. A Slayer's heart pumps a Slayer's blood. Stands to reason it would have the same power."

Still shaken by his outburst, Buffy had to concentrate on his words before she could begin to understand them.

"He needs it to..._ heal himself_ ?"

"Heal whatever's wrong with him, yeah. Needs it to carry on living."

Out in the hallway the phone started to ring and the sound was like a pressure valve on their emotions. Two rings, three, four and then Dawn started to move, her face wary and apologetic as she passed between them. Stepping through the door, she glanced back at them before disappearing.

"I better...get that. It could be Giles."

Spike's face was turned away from her now. Staring down at his legs, he mashed down his fist on the counter top.

"Spike, what is it?"

"He needed me out of the way."

He half laughed, but the sound was empty and hollow. A moment passed before he looked up at her again.

"Knew he couldn't kill me. That wouldn't work. Took how I felt about you, but he knew he had to have me gone didn't he? Knew the sooner I was out of your life, the sooner you'd go back with him. Sooner he could get on with making you his."

"So...what? He _healed_ you? Is that what you're saying?"

Incredulous, Buffy stepped towards him again but he moved backwards.

"That blood he fed me, in the ambulance, at the hospital. That blood they fucking _bathed_ me in..." He closed his eyes at that, his jaw clenching. "That's what did this to me. That's how I can walk already."

She'd been there for almost a minute when Dawn's still, silent figure in the doorway finally drew her attention. Her sister's face was a drift of snow, pale and crystalline, but it was her hands that Buffy noticed first. Half-open as if something had been torn out of them and hanging limply at her sides. She started speaking.

"They're all dead." Her voice was tiny and soft, the voice of a troubled eight year old. "The girls. Andrew called at the house on his way here to borrow...Rosa's spell book and the police were there. They're all dead. Everyone."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

It was noon before the last of the cops left. Armande, the only one of the Institute's Watchers who Buffy knew reasonably well, fielded most of the questions. His face unshaven and eyes bleary from lack of sleep he stood, arms folded, in the centre of the main reception area repeating the standard cover story that they always used in times of crisis. The Institute was an exclusive training school for 'problem kids'. Yes, there were only fifteen students, all girls, they had only been open for a year. No, none of the girls' families lived in Rome, and no, no one had felt that a group of teenage girls were at risk alone in a house with only an elderly chaperone. Never turning his head to look toward Buffy, he patiently explained how the girls' tutor had been on an extended vacation for the last fortnight and that, as a result, the students had not been missed. No one had noticed their absence.

There were some questions in Italian - rapid fire - which Buffy couldn't catch, but from Dawn's horrified expression, she guessed that the details of their deaths were being discussed. Stumbling over her words, her sister started to translate for her, but after the first few sentences she had to ask her to stop. 'Throats slit open' were three words she would have preferred to live her whole life without ever hearing again.

"Mio dio. What kind of...creature could do this?"

Armande covered his face with his hands and, standing stiffly behind him, arms wrapped tight around her body, Buffy had felt a great weight settle on her chest. No one had asked her anything. There were no female Poliziotti and the hard-faced Roma detective had given her only the most cursory of interviews. Where had she been three nights ago when the murders had taken place? Had she known the girls well? Were there boyfriends? Male callers? Anyone who visited the Institute who might have meant the girls harm? When tears had started to her eyes the detective had closed his notebook and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"My apologies, Signorina, but we are very anxious to find the...animal who did this terrible thing."

After they had left, Armande had stood silently for a while, his back turned toward her. He had been one of the first members of the Council assigned to the Institute in Rome and, unlike many of his colleagues, had developed a close relationship with many of the girls. Although she barely knew him, Buffy remembered that he had always seemed especially fond of Elina. A tiny Romanian girl from a poor background, she'd had no family to speak of and Armande - who had lost a daughter to divorce - had seemed to take her under his wing.

Little Elina. So strange to think of her dead now. All of them. Caterina. Rosa. Gina. Little blonde Sophie. Big-voiced, redhead Annette. Mutinous Jan. All her girls. All dead. All fifteen neatly, cleanly, slit open and strung from the rafters of their bedrooms like butchered swine.

"You know who did this?"

Armande's voice was soft, steady and calm. Turning his body slightly towards her, he raised his eyebrows and, when she didn't immediately answer started to repeat the question.

"Do you know who..."

"No."

The distance between them was less than five metres, but she felt it widen impossibly. He knew about her involvement with The Immortal and had been one of the only people she knew in Rome who had warned her against him: "He is not what he seems, that much I know." She had told him to mind his own damn business and he had backed off. Shaken his head silently. He hadn't spoken to her much since then and now she could feel that the faint disapproval and suspicion that she had always sensed from the others coming from him. His eyes, already distant, clouded over like a winter sky, and after a second he glanced at his watch.

"I have to go", he said, and, with nothing but a brief glance in Dawn's direction, he left, slamming the front door behind him with a sound that resonated through the whole building.

Closing her eyes, Buffy took a deep breath and held it. The house was silent again now, only the ticking of the huge hall clock and the faint sound of water running upstairs. Her heart felt immense. Painful and clenched in her chest like a fist, its beat was like a slow, rhythmic pounding and, listening to the sound, she felt herself start to shake. Deep, uncontrollable tremors that shook her whole frame.

"Buffy."

Her sister's hand touched her side and, opening her eyes, she saw Dawn's face mirroring her own, huge-eyed and pale.

"It wasn't your fault."

Lifting her head, she looked toward the staircase. Spike had disappeared when the cops had arrived. The knowledge that he was the reason - if not the direct cause - for so many deaths was agonising for him and, equally as horrified, Buffy had felt neither the strength nor the ability to offer him comfort. Carlo had killed her friends to save Spike and, if he was right, it was all because of her. She had allowed a monster to believe that she could care for him, and it had cost fifteen innocent girls their lives.

"I'd better go get Andrew. He should be here with us."

She was aware of Dawn moving around her, fetching her purse, pulling on a coat, but it wasn't until she touched a hand to her arm again that she registered what her sister had said. Nodding, she tried to focus.

"Ok. Yeah. Probably a good idea." She reached a hand to her face, one touch. "Just get him and come straight back here ok. No going back to his place or ours."

"No stops. I promise. I'll be back in an hour."

After she left, Buffy walked to the downstairs bathroom and threw up. Retching painfully, long after her stomach was empty, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and forced herself to take deep breaths. The little room was silent, save for the rushing of water in the pipes from upstairs, and for a long while she knelt on the floor hugging herself in an effort to control the tremors in her body. The reality of what had happened was still circling her, like a vulture trying to find someplace to land, but for now she had to try and push it to the back of her mind.

Carlo was a thousand times more dangerous than she had ever imagined. He had killed fifteen Slayers, butchered them and taken their blood. The image of their naked bodies hanging single file through the centre of their dorm room was as vivid as if Buffy had seen it herself, but she shook it off. Tried to focus on the questions instead: if Carlo truly needed to take a Slayer's heart in order to live, to stay remain 'The Immortal', why hadn't he killed her already? And why had he killed fifteen of them almost as an aside? Why was it so important that the Slayer cared for him first?

Wiping her hands on the legs of her jeans, she got to her feet and walked over the sink to wash her face. The water was icy cold and she gulped it, trying to rinse the taste from her mouth. Giles would know soon. The Council's grapevine was still strong despite their depleted numbers, and when he did he would probably blame her. The girls were had been her responsibility and she had failed them all. She had told him that she was fine, that she could cope, that she could 'handle Carlo'. God, she hadn't even gotten round to telling him that Spike was back yet, and what did that little oversight say about their supposedly close relationship, she wondered.

oooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Spike? Are you in there?"

Standing outside the shower-room, Buffy bent her head to the door and listened. The sound of water running had continued unabated for the last hour and having finally gone in search of the vampire, she had tracked the source of the noise to one of the upstairs bathrooms. The solid wood door muffled any noises from inside, and leaning into it, she raised her voice.

"Spike?"

There was no answer and, trying the handle, she hesitated when she found it was unlocked. Through the narrow gap she'd opened a soft cloud of steam billowed out into the hallway, wreathing around her like mist. The sound of the shower was much louder now and, keeping her eyes averted, she stepped a little way into the room.

"Hey. Are you in here?"

A soft thud from behind the shower curtain brought her head round with a snap. Taking a step forward, she cleared her throat.

"Spike?"

Another soft thud, slightly louder than the last, brought her hand out to grasp the edge of the curtain. Pulling it back slightly, she started to speak,

"Hey...are you all r..."

Standing directly beneath the stream of scalding water, Spike's palms were laid flat against the tiles, his eyes closed. Blood was running freely from a deep cut on his forehead and, as she watched, it painted a thin red stripe down his cheek and along his chin. Reaching out his right hand slowly, he gripped the edge of the shower curtain with whitened knuckles and abruptly pulled it closed.

"Leave me alone."

His voice was impassive. Frozen in place, Buffy stared at the wet plastic sheet separating them. It was white, almost opaque, but the outline of Spike's body was still visible through it. The long curve of his back flexed, his head came back a fraction and then - the soft thud again. Knowing what made the sound now was unbearable.

"Please. Spike, stop it."

The words came out in a low whisper and, steadying herself, she stared at the wall he had created between them. He felt responsible for the girls' deaths in a way she couldn't even begin to imagine. Willingly or not, he had taken their lives. He had drunk their blood and it had made him whole again.

"It wasn't your fault. You can't blame yourself."

The next thud seemed louder. Gripping the edge of the sink, Buffy felt her jaw start to ache. The tension in her body was almost painful, the muscles pulled tight between her shoulder-blades.

"They died before I even found you, you know? He killed them before he found us at the stockyard. He had to have."

Even as she said it, she wondered at that. Carlo had come straight to them, with gallons of lifesaving Slayer's blood all ready for a rescue mission. He had known. Even before she had. He had known that Spike was dying and that blood from the Slayers would ensure his speedy recovery. And he had known because he had come to him in his dreams. Climbed into his head somehow, pinpointed his mind alone in that black nightmare of a box, and stolen inside. And when he'd left, he had taken something with him.

"You were right. I think he wanted to make sure it was over between us. And he wanted you to tell me to my face, so I could move on. With him. Feeding you their blood was just the quickest way to achieve that."

She drew a deep breath and held it. Spike was motionless, his head still resting where it had struck, but after a moment he drew it back and stood up straight.

"I said to leave me alone."

"I can't."

"Why the hell not?"

A deep-throated growl she almost felt in her bones reverberated around the room. Ripping back the curtain, the vampire threw himself towards her, scarlet blood from his wound coating his ridged face. His hands closed over her upper arms like talons, the fingers pressing deep into her flesh, but although the monster was terrible, a strange, deep calm came over her at the sight of him. A single, sudden realisation. Even wearing the face of a monster, he was still beautiful to her. The muscles in his neck elongated, straining back for the power that he would put into his bite and, reaching up, she laid a hand against them. Soft palm and small fingers curved around and, breathing out at last, she leaned into his grip and laid her head against him.

Spike felt frozen. His arms locked in position, feet still pushed forward as he stood motionless, her body small and slight against his. Sliding her arms slowly around his waist, Buffy lifted her face and looked directly into his eyes. Clear blue now, they looked back at her in disbelief.

"Because I'm in love with you."

And nothing changed. There was no sound or movement and, she couldn't help but think ironically, no great swell of orchestral music either. Her hands, spread wide on the small of his back, slid down to his hips and, leaning in again slowly, she kissed him. His lips felt the same, soft and cool at first and then warming under her own and, even though the kiss had been perfectly calculated, she still wasn't prepared for the emotions that enveloped her. Blood rushed to her temples, down to her knees, a heat building in her that left her breathless. Her lips on his, his skin under her hands. For so long she'd only remembered this in dreams, waking up with his smell fading from her, the memory of his weight on her, the feel of his body curved against her. And now he was real again. Alive as he had ever been and returning her kisses with a growing intensity.

"Buffy..."

The sound of his voice speaking her name sent a deep shiver through her. Spike's fingers were tangling in her hair, pulling her harder against him, his belly pressed against her own and she could feel her skin humming. Every inch of her was alive with sensation and longing for his touch. Reaching for one of his hands, she cupped it to her breast, pulled open the buttons of her shirt to slide it inside. His palm moulded to her, his thumb skating her stiffening nipple, and, unable to help herself, she moaned softly into his mouth.

"Oh...god..."

She could feel herself losing control. For the first time in forever, her emotions were overwhelming her, driving every rational thought from her head. That they were all in danger, that a formidable enemy had to be defeated, that people were dying, none of it mattered. All there was, was here and now. Spike's big, cool hand splayed over her breast and the feel of his hardening cock pressing against her.

"No...stop."

The words rose like a sob, choking out of him, and, as they did, he stumbled backwards against the shower curtain. The contrast of the vivid red blood that covered the left side of his face made his eyes burn like blue flame.

"This is..." He moved further back, reaching around behind him with blind hands. "We shouldn't do this. This is wrong. This is all wrong.".

His fingers closed on a towel and, wrapping himself with in it, he shot a look at her. It took a moment or two for her to realise that her blouse was still hanging open. The print of his hand was still there on her breast, the mark of his fingers, and, suddenly self-conscious, she fastened it.

"Look. Buffy. It's not you. It's me..."

He was looking down at the floor now, frowning, and it felt like cold water was rising up inside her. It's not you, it's me. Hadn't she said the same thing to him once? Excusing herself for, what was it? Beating him to a pulp in that alley? It's not you, it's me, Spike. I'm sorry, but I can never love you. His face as she'd said those words, it was something she'd almost forgotten. So much had changed since then. So many other conversations. But now she got it. She understood at last. How it felt to offer someone your heart, wanting them with everything you were, and to have it rejected. Her lip trembled, hot tears spilling from her eyes without warning. Oh god, and she'd let him make love to her while he'd felt like this.

"It's ok." She managed to fumble out the words somehow, although her voice didn't sound like her own. "It's...you're right. I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry."

His face was still turned away, pained, and she wanted to run now. Somewhere where she wouldn't have to look at him not wanting her. Turning her back on him, she opened the door.

"When Dawn gets back, I'll decide where it goes from here, okay?"

"Right." He sounded subdued, a little ashamed even. "You got it all figured out then? We just going to go in all guns blazing and see just how immortal he really is?"

She had the retort all ready, something about maybe axes rather than guns and seeing if he could still live forever without a head, but it just died on her tongue when as she realised what Spike had just said. Turning to face him again, she held her breath for a moment. He was standing at the sink now, a balled-up washcloth in his hands and, as she watched, slowly began cleaning the blood from his face.

"We? I don't..." she hesitated as he slid his eyes sideways to look at her, "I mean...do you feel strong enough?"

"Bastard healed me, didn't he? Well, he's going to regret that for starters. Besides, when have you known me to back away from a fight?"

"Never?"

"Never."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips and briefly echoing it, he turned his attention back to the the sink. After a beat, she stepped out into the corridor and closed the door.

oooooooooooooooooooo

Looking around at the four of them seated around the low table in her study, Buffy couldn't help but wonder at the skewed familiarity of the scene. Her head buried in a book, Dawn was frowning deeply and making notes in the margins with a pencil, whilst Andrew sat at her feet with the laptop on his knees. At the table, Spike had laid out the contents of the Council's file on Carlo and was busy reading through the profile that Giles had prepared for her so many months before. If she changed their hair colours and blurred her eyes a little, she could almost believe she was looking at an old-fashioned Scooby meeting.

Raising his head from the screen, Andrew smiled crookedly at her. His face was even paler than usual, still processing the shock of losing so many close friends, but he was really trying. Working hard at being the valuable Scooby member he'd always wanted to be to them.

"There's a theory coming together on the Slayers' forum that you might be interested in."

"What?"

"Someone in Belize thinks Wolfram & Hart are actually being controlled by President Bush; 'he is now one of only two surviving members of The Black Thorn circle' " Narrowing his eyes, he looked over at Spike, "What's The Black Thorn circle?"

Ignoring him, Spike pulled a picture out from the pile and studied it intently. After a moment, he looked up.

"You didn't see this before?"

He slid it over to Buffy and she nodded. It was the 50s shot; sharp-suited and slick-haired Carlo was the centre of attention. Crowds of people in a smoky nightclub thronged around him and a dark-haired lovely hung on his arm, mouth wide and laughing. The scene was flash-lit, everyone's teeth white and gleaming.

"Yeah. I'm guessing that was his gangster-chic period."

"Not that...that." Stabbing a finger to the wall behind Carlo, he pointed at the shadows created by the flash-bulb. "Notice anything unusual?"

Following his line of sight, her eyes widened. The Immortal's companion cast a perfect silhouette, as did the taller man on his right, but, in between them, what should have been the shadow of a man was something else. A bulging neck rose from low-set shoulders and, from either side of his head something branched out, confused shapes mixed with the lines of light-fittings and drapes.

"Are those...?"

"Horns?"

Studying it for a moment longer, Buffy dropped the picture back on the table. "It could just be the lighting."

"Could be." Spike eyed her warily, "Could also mean the mysteriously immortal Immortal isn't exactly what he appears to be. Which would seem to follow, don't you think?"

Andrew cleared his throat.

"Uh...in some ancient religions they believed that if a person was posessed by a spirit or demon, their shadow was the one thing that would show their true nature."

"Well, we know he isn't human right?" Dawn closed her book, marking her place with a finger. "But supposedly he was, I mean that's what everyone says, although no one seems to know exactly when he...stopped being."

"Sometime around seven hundred years ago I guess." Andrew shrugged, "At least that's the 'popular theory'."

"And what's the unpopular one?"

"That he's way older and just covers it up well."

Spreading the photographs out again, Buffy found the earliest. Taken in the early 1900s, Carlo didn't look any different from the first day she'd met him. His eyes were perfectly clear and dark, a slight smile on his face. If she'd been asked to guess, she'd have put him at 30, maybe 35 at the most.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would he cover it up?" Looking from one face to another, she finally settled on Spike's. "I thought demons liked people knowing their age? Isn't it like...a status thing?"

"Usually, yeah." Rubbing a hand through his hair, the vampire frowned. "Most of the young 'uns tack on a hundred years or so, makes them feel like tough guys, you know?" He shook his head, "But, no, I never heard of one saying he was younger than he was."

"So why would he?"

Dawn pursed her lips, "To cover something up? Who or what he really is, maybe?"

The silence settled over them all like a heavy blanket and when finally the phone started to ring, it took Buffy a moment or two to realise what the sound was. Walking over to her desk, she picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Buffy!" Giles' voice filled the earpiece, full of barely controlled anxiety, "Are you all right? I've just had a call from Armande Giannattasio. He said that something had happened, that the girls had all been in some kind of accident?"

"Not an accident, Giles. They were murdered."

"Murdered? My god...by who? By w...?"

The sentence hung unfinished between them and, bowing her head, Buffy twisted the cord tightly through her fingers. He had to hate her now. His warnings had been clear right from the start, but she had chosen to ignore them, to ignore him, and now fifteen innocent girls were dead as a result.

"The Immortal." He answered for her, the words hollow-sounding and far away. Clearing his throat, he drew a deep ragged breath. "For their hearts?"

"No. Seems like mine is the only one he wants."

"He's isolating you, Buffy. He's chosen you." The tone of his voice changed suddenly. "Are Dawn and Andrew there?"

"Yes."

"Then put me on speaker, please."

She did as she was told. Moving the phone to the table between them, she dropped back into her seat and hugged her knees.

"Dawn? Andrew? Are you both alright?"

His voice sounded so clear, as if he was there with them and, leaning forward, Dawn answered him.

"We're both fine." Glancing at Buffy, she smiled weakly, "Just a bit shaken up is all."

"All right then. I want you all to listen to me."

A rustle of papers at the other end, and she could almost hear him pulling himself together. Giles was always so good at this part, pushing the emotions to the side, dealing with the problem in front of them. For so long she'd misunderstood, angry and resentful that he seemed able to just switch off, but now she envied him.

"I did as you asked, Buffy. Records are pretty fragmented on the subject of Slayer's deaths, as we've said before, but I managed to find at least three other cases in which Slayers were found with their hearts removed. The last was during the late 1600s. A Slayer in Spain, who had become estranged from the Council, was found...'eviscerated - her heart cleanly removed'. Witnesses interviewed at the time reported that she was often in the company of a man known locally as 'El Viejo' - The Old One."

There was a pause before he continued.

"The next is a little more vague I'm afraid. In 1390 a Slayer in Russia is said to have been canonised, after the peasant who found her slain body was cured of his blindness. There's not a great deal of information on the means of her death, but after a detailed study of her preserved remains by a colleague of mine in the mid 80s, it was surmised that her heart had been torn from her chest by hand."

Russia, over six hundred years ago. Shaking her head, Buffy tried to imagine what it must be like to have lived for so long. For Carlo to have killed with impunity for so long, he had to be a creature of incredible cunning.

"Could she have been the first, Giles?"

"That was my first thought too, but you said not to limit ourselves so any particular timeframe, so I kept looking. I cross-referenced all the legends and folk-tales we have on The Immortal with our database of information on the history of the Slayers and came back with one more match." He paused again, clearing his throat as if he knew what he was about to tell them seemed unbelievable. "In the late 1800s, an Oxford scholar attached to the Council of Watchers presented a hypothesis that The Immortal was in fact the living embodiment of a powerful demon, worshipped as a god by the people of ancient Carthage. His paper was widely ridiculed at the time, as he presented no real evidence to support his theory, and he was later committed to a mental institution when he attested that the The Immortal had somehow 'invaded his mind'."

Shooting a look at Spike, Buffy raised her eyebrows. "Is that possible do you think?"

"That he possesses the power to enter minds? Certainly. Telepathic demons are rare, but their abilities have been demonstrated even over great distances."

"Actually, I meant the part about the demon. Could Carlo really be this...thing from Carthage?"

"Mol'ech."

Leaning forward in interest, Andrew nodded his head in recognition.

"Mol'ech was pretty much super-evil. Big on the ol' child sacrifices. Real popular with the Phoenicians. Had them barbecuing their first born like it was going out of fashion. Then things went kinds sour during that whole Carthage thing and people stopped believing he could deliver."

Giles' voice continued, "The match I found was part of an original legend of the Slayers. Many of the ancient stories were part of the oral tradition, so were never given a great deal of credence by the Council, but this one had survived in a number of different languages with little variation."

"During the final days of the third Punic War, a Slayer known as Similce was amongst the last of the Cartheginians to submit to the Roman invasion. Organising a small army and manufacturing their own weapons, she defended a stronghold within the city for almost five days, praying to the God Mo'lech that they would be delivered. As Andrew rightly says, it was the custom of the time that children be sacrificed in return for the Gods' favours, and Similce was so convinced of her vocation that she offered her own son's life in return for their victory."

A flash of red-gold flame and a small, dark-eyed face pleading with her. Familiar dark eyes. Wide and black and looking straight into her soul.

Mama please...I don't want to die! Please, don't let me die!"

"But when the Roman forces finally broke through their defences, they found her dead. Rather than be sacrificed, her own child had torn out his Mother's heart."

The air felt thick and suffocating. Holding her head in hands, Buffy struggled to control the images that flooded through her: fire and children screaming and a feeling of total loss, that she had failed someone. And something else. A vague sense of recognition. Something strangely familiar about that small figure framed by the dancing flames.

"It was Carlo. He was her son."

"That was my assumption too. Although it seems quite incredible. If he truly is the son of Similce, that would make his age..."

From his seat opposite, Spike was staring at her, his eyes wide with incredulous disbelief. She knew he'd already worked it out as well, but, as she finished Giles' sentence, his expression was still every bit as horrified as hers was.

"...that would make his age well over two thousand years old."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13 **

_ 5 MONTHS EARLIER _

_It wasn't exactly what she'd been expecting. But then, when she thought about it, Buffy wasn't entirely sure what she had been expecting. After all, it wasn't as if anyone had ever made any hard and fast rules about how immortal demonic crime-lords should live. So who was to say they couldn't have good taste if they wanted to? Or cream-coloured leather walls? Or own a full set of to-die-for Louis Vuitton hand-luggage? _

_There had been guards on the gate and the door, but just the regular human kind and, albeit big with the muscles and fancy swordplay, nothing that presented her with much of a challenge. The stairs leading up to the first floor office - or 'the nerve-centre of his accursed empire' as Andrew had so poetically termed it - were smooth bone-white marble and, as she ascended them, Buffy had felt a sweetly familiar rush of adrenaline. It had been two weeks at least since her last half-decent fist fight, and the thought of going up against someone as powerful and supposedly dangerous as The Immortal, filled her with an excitement that bordered on sexual. _

_Giles had been big on the warning: she was 'out of practice', The Immortal was 'at the top of his game...a deadly adversary with almost a thousand years of nefarious dealings behind him', all the stuff he knew was just bound to get her blood pumping. After their heart-to-heart at Christmas, she knew he'd been working hard to get her interested again but, until recently, she hadn't felt anything but a workmanlike need to get the job done. Then a few more girls had started to arrive and watching their confidence grow, seeing the fire in their eyes, had rekindled something inside her she'd thought was all but dead. Passion for what she was, for what her body could do, awoke inside her, and now here she was again. Muscles tensed and senses sharp and her heart beating again with strange fierce joy. _

_Flattening her body to the wall at the top of the stairs, Buffy craned her neck forward to peer through the gap behind the doorframe, one hand gripping the hilt of a beautiful, mirror-bladed kitana she'd liberated from his own personal bodyguard. A vast, dark mahoghany desk stood in the far corner, the empty chair beside it turned at an angle, as if its occupant had only just stepped away. The voile curtains at the open window behind it billowed softly and, sliding forward, one step at a time, she moved into the room. _

_A soft, ruby-coloured carpet covered the floor, muffling her feet even more and, in the air, there was a faint smell of sandalwood. Turning her body slightly, she caught sight of her reflection in a long golden mirror and started. Something about the quality of light, the soft glowing colours of the room and its furnishings, made her look…different. Her clothes, jeans and a simple silk halter, seemed to melt to her body, accentuating the sleek curves and lines of her hips and breasts. Her skin shone with health, her hair falling to her shoulders in a sleek golden curtain and, in her own eyes, she saw something that was both familiar and terrible. _

"_You are The Slayer." _

_He was standing at the window. Maybe he always had been. Without turning, she touched the tip of the sword to the floor, drew a line between them. _

"_I'm one of them" _

_A slight movement of his head, and she knew that he was smiling. A hand reached out to the side, lifted a glass and poured something into it that sounded wonderful. Soft, clear sound and the gentle shift and crack of ice. _

"_No. You are the only one. For me at least." _

_"Is that right?" _

_"It is." _

_His voice was like the sandalwood, rich, warm and exotic, wreathing around her. Lifting her head, Buffy met his eyes. Something familiar behind them. Something terrible. Taking a step towards him, she let the sword trail out behind her. _

"_So you're The Immortal." _

_He bowed, just a duck of the head, but there was a strange kind of amused deference in his expression. As if he already knew her. As if they were friends. _

"_You may call me Carlo." _

_She shrugged, "I'd rather not, if that's ok." His whole demeanour was strange, confident and completely at ease. "Tends to get kind of confusing otherwise. When I'm killing you I mean." _

"_Certainly. Yes. I see that." A small frown creased his brow and, leaning against the edge of his broad desk, he took a slow sip of his drink. "Yes. That must have been very confusing for you. Although I'm sure your Angel has forgiven you by now, yes?" _

_Something touched her spine: a cool silken shiver, like hands trailing down her back, soft pale fingers reaching into her. Her heart suddenly racing again, she lifted her chin, raised the sword to hip height. _

"_So you read minds. Nice trick. Want to tell me what I'm thinking of right now?" _

_His laugh was soft, warm and rich like the scent in the air and, despite everything she knew she should feel, she found herself staring at his throat. The pale, smooth hollow in her throat that fluttered as he laughed. _

"_Now? Now you are letting your mind wander. Exploring possibilities." His eyes sparkled darkly, "And you are wondering if maybe your friend Giles realises that you are old enough to make up your own mind about who you do and don't.…" a flicker of a smile, "...'make friends' with." _

_The curtains at the window billowed again, obscuring his face for a moment and, in that split second, Buffy moved forward. Planting the tip of the sword against his heart, she met his gaze with her own. Without breaking it, The Immortal slowly moved a hand to his desk, reached for a second glass and filled it. A soft gurgle of liquid and the same bewitching crackle of ice. Taking a step backwards, she let the tip of her weapon drop to the floor. _

_"If you think you can seduce me, you should think again. I have natural immunity." _

_"I would not presume..." _

_"Of course not." _

_He was smiling at her and she could feel herself wanting to return it. The sword balanced in her grasp felt light and supple. Her own power was flowing through her like never before. She could kill this man. Here and now. She could end his life forever. It was in her power to do so. But something was stopping her. Something was telling her to wait. Not to be so hasty. Because there was time for this. There was plenty of time. _

_Extending a hand towards her, Carlo offered her the glass. The liquid inside swirled silver and gold and, as she stepped forward to take it, she heard the kitana's blade slice a deep ragged path in her wake. _

ooooooooooooooooooo

"Mol'ech: The Deceiver!"

Seated behind a pile of books on the other side of Buffy's desk, Andrew removed the pair of wire-rimmed spectacles he was wearing and slowly polished them with a clean white handkerchief. The effect was only slightly marred by the fact that he didn't actually wear glasses.

"Not to be confused by Moloch The Corruptor - also horned, now of course deceased - or with Mel'kich The _Very Very Tiny _. According to popular legend and fable: a demon with 'the head of a bull and the body of a...well a man-like...thing'. Made his first documented appearance around 700 B.C, when he got all the Israelites busy barbecuing their firstborn in the Valley of Hinnom."

Leaning forward to stare at the image of a massive, horned, pre-Christian demon, Buffy found she still had to work to suspend her disbelief. Everything Giles had told them, everything she had discovered for herself, pointed to one conclusion but, for some reason, she just couldn't seem to get her head around it. This thing was living in Carlo's skin. Fifty-some feet of heaving blood-slicked, ancient evil and she had been dating it. She had eaten romantic dinners with it and held its hand along the river at sunset. Sitting back in her seat abruptly, she tried to control the sudden feeling of nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. _Oh god, she'd let that thing into her bed. Into her body. _

"Hey...you ok?"

Dawn's hand touched her forearm and Buffy saw that both her sister and Spike were looking at her with matching expressions of concern. Covering her discomfort with a frown, she nodded dismissively, pulling the book towards her again.

"So they sacrificed their own children to him. Why?"

"Somehow they got the idea that Mol'ech could control the sun, although - fun fact - there's actually no mention of his having any real god-like powers to speak of. Other than the power of being really really big and scary-looking. so, kind of unsurprisingly, one day there was a big ol' flood. All the people who'd sacrificed their kiddies got really pissed at him and then, pretty much overnight, Mol'ech just...vanished."

He slid a second book on top of the first.

"Ok, now Judea about 200 years later. Whacky religions are the hot new thing. People are worshipping everything from ponies to house cats, and suddenly Mol'ech's bigger than Elvis. There is much feasting and rejoicing - although no deep-fried peanut butter and jelly in those days of course. Then one day Alexander The Great rides up on his big shiny horse and tells everyone how they should all be bowing down to Almighty Zeus. There's no real proof that he actually looked like Colin Farrell of course, but I'm guessing he was pretty easy on the eye. Either way, the Judeans love him and Mol'ech dropped faster than a quirky Fox TV show."

Opening a third book, their self-appointed demon expert placed it carefully on top of the others. The hairs on the back of Buffy's neck prickled as she recognised the subject of the painting. Crumbling walls were silhouetted against a choking, smoke-filled sky and everywhere lay the charred bodies of ruined, dying men, women and children.

"Ok, so...cut to ancient Carthage. Mol'ech's got a temple of his own, hot and cold running kiddies. He's saying all the right things in all the right people's ears, promising wealth and success and glorious victory and stuff which, when you've had the entire Roman Empire breathing down your neck for half a century, has to sound good, right? But then who should come knocking but General Scipio Aemilianus - all round tough guy and darling of the emperor. Incidentally rumored to be played by Bruce Willis in the upcoming biopic of the same name.

Scipio lays siege to the whole city for three years and, despite all Mol'ech's promises to the foolish Cartheginians, he finally manages to beat the door down. And when he does, surprise, surprise - the daemon now known to all as "Mol'ech The Deceiver" had vanished again." Narrowing his eyes, he spread his hands wide on the table in front of him. "Or had he?"

There was a long pause and, with a stir of annoyance, Buffy realised that Andrew was obviously waiting for some kind of 'audience response'. Luckily for him, Dawn took the bait.

"He hadn't?"

"Here's what I'm thinking. Mol'ech's jig was up. He was an old school daemon, all flash and thunder and not a lot of actual pzazz, and times they were a' changin. The Romans still believed in gods, sure, but the ones they really worshipped were men. Men like Scipio Aemilianus, like Cato The Elder. Human heroes were where it was at and Mol'ech decided that he wanted in on the action."

His little speech wasn't exactly up to Giles' standard, but he was passionate, she'd give him that. Frowning, Buffy leant forward to look more closely at the image of her nightmare. In the background, lit by the flames of an enormous fire, a group of tiny figures cowered at the feet of a towering statue. Their small faces, coloured orange by the leaping flames, were filled with fear and wonder as they looked up at the mighty figure of their God.

"In your dream, you said that you heard Similce's son calling out for help, pleading for his life. His own Mommy had just offered him up for a crispy sacrifice and he was desperate." Moving the first book back to the top of the pile again, Andrew spread it wide with a snap. The monstrous figure of the demon covered both pages. "So here's what I think. Mol'ech needed to change his act, he needed a body, a vessel, someone he could shape and bend to his will. And then, who should offer up his own immortal soul to his God but...the Slayer's own pretty little son. And, just like that, Mol'ech gets himself a one-way human ticket out of Carthage city."

It took her a second or two to realize that he was done. His hands laid flat on the table on either side of the book, Andrew seemed to be awaiting their reaction again, but, for the moment, Buffy couldn't think of anything to say. On the couch beside her, Spike shifted irritably. He'd been silent throughout most of Andrew's speech, his face a mask of boredom, but now he moved forward, reaching for the portrait of the demon. Turning it first one way then the next, he dropped it back on the table.

"So forgive me for asking the question I know everyone else is dying to, but how do we kill him?"

There was a pause before Dawn's soft voice interjected. Glancing sideways at the book, she swallowed nervously.

"Um…do we even have to? Fight him I mean?" Looking around at the other three, she raised her eyebrows expectantly. "Without Buffy's heart, he's dying anyway, right? Isn't that what this has all been about?"

Her sister's expression was touchingly hopeful and, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze, Buffy saw Spike reach for her other hand and do the same.

"Can't see The Immortal going out with a whimper somehow, Platelet." The vampire gave a grim smile, "But don't worry. Your sis'll be fine with me to watch her back. We'll take him out, and then the two of you can go back to living the dolce vita."

Although she knew he meant well, his words echoed dully in Buffy's ears, reminding her yet again that his presence in her life again was impermanent. Once this fight was over, Spike would be gone and her life would continue without him. It was a sobering thought and, trying to keep her voice light, she turned back to face Andrew.

"So we kill him. That's pretty much always been the plan right? Is there any special method? Have to say, I'm leaning towards good old fashioned decapitation myself, but I'm open to suggestions."

The expression on his face was less than encouraging. Putting his glasses back on, he started to smile and then seemed to think better of it

"Uh, well…now, that's the bad news I'm afraid."

Rolling her eyes, Buffy sighed softly. "There was some good news? Did I miss something?"

"Uh...well…you see demon-possession isn't usually a long-term thing, except for the traditionally…" he flicked an apologetic look at Spike, "Uh - parasitic species that is. Pure demons use up waaaay more energy than the average human body has to offer. As a result, the flesh becomes weakened pretty quickly and the host is either abandoned for a new one or dies."

"But he found a way to stay alive. The hearts of Slayers. We know all this."

Shaking his head, Andrew leant forward in his seat, sliding out the photograph of Carlo at the nightclub.

"He found a way to keep his _body _alive, his vessel. In The Immortal's body, Mol'ech has everything he's ever wanted. He's handsome, he's popular, he's rich, he's revered. People look up to him, women freaking love him. He's spent almost two thousand years living the high-life and now you're telling him his time is up? If Carlo's body dies, Mol'ech in his true form is released"

Pushing the image of the towering demon back under their noses, Andrew gave her weak grin. "And Buffy. He is going to be _majorly _pissed at you."

ooooooooooooooooooo

"I'm the one who has to end this."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew what Spike's answer would be. Standing in the doorway of the Institute's armory, the vampire's brows were drawn together in an angry frown, the expression on his face hauntingly familiar to her. Taking a step into the room, he reached to lift a mace from the wall display.

"Not alone. Not this time. We've been through this."

His voice was calm, but there was a dangerous edge to it. Selecting a heavily decorated broad-sword from the row at the back of the room, Buffy weighed it carefully in one hand before rejecting it.

"That was before I knew what we were up against. Before I knew what he was. We're talking about a pure demon Spike and we don't know that you're strong enough yet. I won't risk you. Not again."

She wasn't sure what it was she saw in his eyes, but the blue in them intensified. Moving to stand beside her, he let the mace drop to his side.

"Bollocks, "he said softly, "You're just worried I'll show you up is all."

For a moment, he seemed to be waiting for some kind of a retort from her and, when he didn't get one, he shook his head.

"Look Buffy, I didn't spend the last year with a bunch of girl-scouts, you know? Angel might be a cock, but he knows good back-up when he sees it. "

It was the first time he'd mentioned his grand-sire's name since the hospital and, suddenly realising the fact, Spike hesitated, as if he knew that some kind of explanation was finally in order.

"He had me all figured out you know."

His voice was light, but she could sense the weight of emotion behind it. His eyes darted sideways, daring her to say something but, when she didn't, he dropped his gaze to the floor.

"I know it always seemed like we hated each other, but deep down, there was always something going on there. Maybe we're more alike then we like to admit. Otherwise how do you explain it? Us both falling for the same woman, I mean?" He glanced at her again, eyes narrowed. "Oh, I know he liked to pretend I was just doing it to get back at him, copy-catting, but deep down? He knew better. Knew you and me better than we knew ourselves, I reckon."

Resting a hand on the rack of swords in front of her, Buffy felt her chest tighten almost imperceptibly.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because he knew damn well that if we made it out of L.A. alive, this was the last place on earth I'd ever want to go...and the only place I'd want to be."

Part of a question she'd never got around to asking had just been answered, but, strangely, now it seemed kind of unimportant. Angel's reasons for mailing a badly-wounded Spike to her had been solely his own, just as all his important decisions always had been. It stood to reason that he would no more have consulted Spike about where he was sending him, any more than he would her. That he had effectively pushed them both back together, whether selflessly or ironically, was so typically Angel it was almost poetic.

"_The Personal Effects of Miss B. Summers. _" Saying it softly to herself, she almost laughed. "God, he really does have a pretty sick sense of humour, doesn't he?"

"Kind of comes with the whole territory, I guess. That and the need to make himself miserable." Spike's lips quirked into a sudden, wry grin. "Although if he'd really wanted that torment, the old bugger should have taken me with him."

Looking at him curiously now, Buffy wondered at the change that had come over him. What had happened in the last twelve months to alter Spike's feelings towards Angel so drastically? They had worked together, she knew that much, fought together and maybe even learned to look out for one another, but none of that explained why Spike was able to talk about him now with this strange, almost fond detachment. She studied his expression for a moment before she finally realised something.

"You love him, don't you?"

The vampire's face didn't alter, but his eyes flicked to her. "Don't you?"

His expression was unreadable and there was no tension in his body, but still she sensed that he expected an answer from her. Breathing out slowly, she nodded.

"I think part of me always will."

"Thought so."

His eyes were clear and deep midnight-blue, looking straight back into her own and she could swear she saw something familiar in their depths. A tiny flare. Frowning, Spike took a small step back from her and let the mace slip to the ground.

"He always liked to remind me how he suffered, you know? How much the soul pained him, because of what he'd done. Pained him so much worse than mine But you know what? He didn't have to. There was never any need. I always knew who the better man was."

Pushing a hand deep into his pocket, he drew a foot along the carpet. Cocked his head to one side.

"We made a good team, you and I, though, didn't we?"

The hint of a question in his voice almost broke her heart.

"We still do, Spike." She hesitated for a moment and then reached for him. "There's still no one else I'd rather have beside me in a fight…or anywhere. You know that right?"

He was looking at their hands now, a slight frown on his face. Raising them, he spread his fingers wide, before threading them through her own. Buffy's memory of the last time they'd stood this way flashed before her. Sunlight illuminating them, golden flames licking at their wrists and his eyes - ashes and stormy, blue skies - staring back into her own.

"You meant it, didn't you? In the Hellmouth, I mean. You meant what you said, when you said it? About...caring for me."

His voice was soft and steady, but he wouldn't look at her.

"You didn't believe me though. Why?"

A small shake of his head and he almost laughed, disbelief and surprise at even being asked,

"Why? Because...why _would _you love me!"

"Why would you love me?" she replied calmly.

He was struggling now; she could see that. Trying to find something that didn't exist for him anymore. The chasm that she had felt open between them in the hospital was yawning at his feet now, and, for the first time, he was looking down. Trying hard to visualise what it was that had been taken from him. Shaking his head again, his grip on her hand tightened, a deep frown creasing his brow.

"This is so fucking hard."

"It is." She gave a small nod, wary of what she was about to say. "But maybe…it's something we can use."

Looking at her sharply, the vampire raised his eyebrows, "Use how?"

"Carlo thinks he's taken you out of the equation. He thinks I'm alone. He doesn't understand that it isn't just love that holds two people together."

Spike's expression softened and she knew that he understood. He remembered that much. The thing that had brought him to her that first night outside her house in Revello Drive, the thing that had stopped them from killing each other all those years. Before they'd been lovers or friends, they'd been far more than enemies.

"Powerful sexual chemistry?"

There was a sparkle in his eye that hadn't been there before and, letting his hand drop, Buffy fixed him with a narrowed gaze.

"I meant resp..."

Spike cut her off with a low chuckle, "I know what you meant."

And it was good feeling. That they still got each other. It was a small thing, but it gave her hope and, right now, that was all she needed. Turning back to the rack of weapons, Buffy's hand closed over the cool hilt of the same Japanese sword she'd taken from the Immortal's home that day. Drawing it out, the mirror-like blade made a perfect sound, a high silver note that vibrated in the air around them.

"Nice sword."

Sheathing the kitana with a sharp snap, she turned to face Spike again. The muscles in his pale forearm flexed as he lifted his own weapon in a clumsy salute.

"Nice mace."

"Thanks."

He lifted his chin and regarded her steadily for a moment, the clear blue of his eyes shining, dark and dangerous, in the pale heart of his face.

"Here's to battling ancient immortal evil." A small razor-sharp grin, "Present company excepted of course."


End file.
